


Attack of the Evil Street Machines!

by VinstonCup



Category: NASCAR RPF
Genre: 2000s, Car Accidents, Classic Cars, Competition-Set Fic, Fast Cars, Gen, Mario Kart References, NASCAR, Past Character Death, Racing, Street Racing, Team Dynamics, and by that I mean Dale Earnhardt, or is it hasbropunk?, you've heard of cyberpunk now get ready for hotwheelspunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23111284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VinstonCup/pseuds/VinstonCup
Summary: In the summer of 2001, Jeff Gordon finds himself leading his fellow drivers into a grudge match against a band of ruthless street racers - racers bent on proving their way's the best and purest. The new team - and their curious new fuel vendor - are in the race of their lives.But is there something more to the rogues' plot? Something Jeff is more connected to than he knows? OF COURSE THERE IS!
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. The Good Guy Wins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLAYLIST: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1ftMDYqz8g8TJollrKM5Px?si=ESqGy2TZQYCDDLPXKjETVQ

If your heart was pounding out of its cavity when that final lap started at Michigan, you weren’t alone and you weren’t wrong. It was dead even for the lead. Scraping paint. _Don’t get too close,_ Jeff Gordon said calm to himself - he zipped past the white flag, well past his third hour of being rattled, blasted, thrown by all the brute force of driving 180 miles a dang hour in the number 24. _Don’t get greedy with the side draft on Rudd, I got enough of a run out of turn 4 and shift HERE…_

Ricky Rudd's 28 was a bit under a car length ahead. _Man, Yates makes some horsepower..._

There were fans standing perched on the edges of the thin metal bleachers, their cheers ringing out. There were fans glued to the steel catch fence, unblinking at the soot and wind and rubber that dusted their faces, and at the tippy-top of their RVs.

The leaders zoomed into 1 neck and neck; the fans hadn’t stopped. Number 28 went in deep…too deep. Too much throttle, no momentum; it drifted helpless up the banking. Jeff got back to the gas before Ricky – his Monte Carlo, the one with bright red flames pouring from the front of its metallic blue body, wanted to shoot up to the wall too. To come all the way here, run dozens of dead-on practice laps, have the crew check the spoiler angle and the oil and the camber and the pit routine a hundred thousand times, lead lap 249 and he was going to come home _second?_

Not happening.

He wrestled it and shot back into the lead, and his steely eyes narrowed toward the straightaway ahead.

About a quarter of the crowd kept whooping it up. The rest sat back down.

Jeff couldn’t see that now, but he’d seen enough of it to know. There was a good chance, if someone was there, they either had ten Gordon diecasts or, much more likely, one giant Gordon effigy – seriously, what was the need for those? What would make someone --

Rudd gained ground in the last turn. A good few feet per second. _Oh, shoot._

Jeff hounded his mirror as the black car drafted up, chopped hard left almost to the apron – he tried to mimic it but it filled a quarter of the mirror. A third. Half. Then, somehow, no more, and number 24 crossed the stripe barely a car length ahead of the 28. The 2001 Kmart 400 was his!

“Yes!” He grinned from cheek to cheek, like he’d done as a tot at the tiny quarter-midget track in Rio Linda, and in a sprint in Indiana, and in a Busch car at Atlanta. “You guys are awesome!”

There was a party in Victory Lane again. Cheers and champagne spewed around the 24 team when Jeff climbed out of the Chevy, smile still bright, hands reaching out to everyone, nothing able to touch him.

Then he saw the stands.

He tried, for an instant, to survey the stands; he suddenly let the cheers and champagne roll right off him. _Then_ – maybe the instant had been too long? - he pumped his fists, smiled and whooped. Looking at him off track, it’d be hard to mistake him for a down-home NASCAR driver. Hair trimmed and gelled to black perfection. White skin conditioned by photo shoots to never wrinkle in the southern sun. Stature, as he admitted, pretty short. He wasn’t yet thirty, either. The TV announcers were calling him The Kid again as they praised the three-time champion’s win. His fifty-fifth ever, his third of the year.

Those unsettled three-quarters of the fans, even so, were booing now. He tried not to hear them and took the questions.

“What an awesome victory this was; I wanna thank Pepsi, Quaker State, uh…" _Who'd I forget? They're gonna kill me in the briefings if I don't think of--_ "Fritos! It's Fritos! I mean...thank you, Fritos. We don’t get a chance to thank them enough…”

He would not look back at the stands. He would not. He would not. He promised. They were booing louder, _why are they booing louder?_ , but he was being his usual fair self; surely that counted for something, right? Right?

“I couldn’t have done this without the Hendrick engine department and the fab shop and everyone that works so hard and…and…”

Jeff always made a point, while he could be heard, to hand off credit to every team contributor he could think of. Don’t misunderstand, he would thank them all again in person, motivate them for next week, among the quiet, closed-off clacks and whirrs of the race shop - he’d been doing it every week for years. But in these kinds of interviews, he appeared to have one ear pointed back to the stands if you looked at it frame by frame. 

On the other side of the country, two people did exactly that.

“What a clown…shaking in his suit...paying for the yacht more than he says how the drive even felt. I’d never behave like that.”

“Of course not; you’d behave worse.”

“I mean it. The whole parade, why do they do it? I thought they would have had enough of all the colors and the cameras and the…’promotional consideration’ in the actual race – ” The clenched fist of the man in blue looked ready to snap. “ - it’s such a -“

An arm shod with yellow reached to him. “Let me stop you before your head explodes. Should we go ahead and…start Blueshell? You obviously want to.”

There was a scoff. A chair spun around. “You _want_ to rush into it now? I thought you said I was being emotional.”

"You've seen the headlines. They're trying to court him again."

"Are they? That's too good." Invaded by a thought, he turned away and growled. “But High Voltage still can’t find a compatible trigger.”

“About that. There’s something you should see.”

The TV had long since stopped relaying the race, in favor of ad plugs. “The following has been brought to you locally by GT gasoline! On the long road ahead, trust the orange and red! And now—“

The schemers shut the noise off and entered an expansive black room. The hideaway surged with all kinds of tech - wires, magnets, soldering irons, computers, server monoliths.

“Don’t tell her I showed you first,” said the man in yellow as he looked for a few file names. Beside them, he pulled up a virtual-machine window – a simulation of important things – and plucked something small from a foam-padded container.

The device, a simple box of plastic and metal, fit in his hand nicely. “Somehow she got her hands on one of these. Now if we tell the system it crossed a certain point--”

“This better work.”

“Relax. Watch.”

The screen appeared in perfect order for a few seconds. A jolt right after. Something had happened to the important things.

They both snickered quiet. “ _Way_ too good,” the leader said. “Of all the things she could have found—“

“It's perfect.”

“It’s finally gonna happen.” He peered down and spewed indulgent triumph. “Tell everyone we found the good guy."

It was about a week in advance when the teams got their invite to Bonneville.

Packed flat for miles out in every direction, the salt flats were probably the coolest place in the country to drive – the freest. Ever since Daytona Beach had stopped holding speed-record runs, being here was _the_ opportunity to mash the gas, leave every rule behind, go as fast as physically possible. The management of the place had told teams it was an opportunity for straight-line aero tests, but they’d also required media cameras, and group photos, and that the cars show up in a full paint job. So everyone that’d been invited had brought either an old car or a show car.

The doors of Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s trailer swung open to reveal a skinny, not-quite-red face and a shallow mess of dirty blonde hair. Dale Jr. adjusted his sunglasses to check for press, then soaked in the scenery again. The flats were a gleaming, spotless white. The surrounding mountains stood tall, firm, sheltering. At least by itself, this didn’t look like one of the countless places in our wacky world where things went wrong easy. That was nice to know. 

He looked up to the deep blue sky, his eyes hanging there for a solid minute.

He’d already checked with the crew of the red #8 Chevy about these final hours of the event – so quickly, of course, that he only remembered half of it as he strolled through the makeshift paddock. On his right were Bill Elliott’s crew, working on his McDonald’s #94 from two whole seasons ago, and that of young Jeremy Mayfield, huddled around the roaring motor of what looked like a car from last year. Patting each other’s backs, they removed more wedge and added more PSI than they’d usually dare to on Sundays. Jeremy was right with them, chuckling as he cranked a wrench.

On his left was the 24 car – mostly silent.

“Everything okay?” Dale asked through the window. “Don’t think I’ve seen you wait this long unless you had to.”

Jeff shuffled his eyes. "I, uh, yeah, totally. I just..." He noticed a scripted “Dale Earnhardt Jr.” in place of the usual Budweiser logo on Dale’s firesuit. “Hey, that’s a nice new look.”

“It ain’t new, but thanks. Car’s done up the same way. I made an appearance for some school kids a while back and we brought the same chassis." His voice turned sour. "Dang shame today was scheduled so tight we didn't even have much time to test, you know? It's boring. Don't know why we're here."

"They’re giving more time at the end to whoever’s quickest.”

Dale’s eyes glowed in a snap. "Never mind."

Jeff shot him a smirk. “Oh, you're on. And I was -- just going over some things with the team earlier.”

Behind him, Junior heard something sharp. _Oh no, what's that?_ Breath shortening, he whipped his head around in a panic, and there was Kyle Petty rolling his ‘97 Hot Wheels car to the starting line as someone on his crew whirred a buzzsaw for fun. Noting the look on Junior's face, Kyle called out to him plainly. "Don't even ask. I'm not giving Jeremy my setup, and I'm not giving it to you."

Sheepish, Dale turned back to Jeff. “Nothing about leaving, right?” he asked. “I heard around.”

Rumors of what Dale was talking about had whirled around driver #24 since the spring, and they hadn’t been this strong since a couple of Formula One outfits made their first bids a few years ago. Just this morning, the offer he’d gotten had crept back into his brain, uninvited. Like it did every time he saw an effigy.

“It was awful nice of them that they asked me again, and they keep saying I have until the end of the summer..."

Uninvited, yes. But not unwelcome.

"...but, uh, I told them not right now."

“What about all the attention?”

Jeff let out a chuckle that took a second to sound complete. “As long as they’re making noise, right?”

Jeff had known well the man who gave him that advice – he was bound to as soon as his clean, pale face shared press photos with Dale Sr. back in ’93. Dale’s car wore jet black, Jeff’s the whole bright rainbow. Dale wore a mustache under his Gargoyles, Jeff’s wife had him shave his. Dale hunted deer, made enemies, drank Busch, raised hell. Jeff played Nintendo. You can guess why it didn’t take long for _ANYBODY BUT GORDON_ signs to far outnumber 24 hats. Or why Dale joked, with a grin and a little-too-hard pat on Jeff’s shoulder, that he was so young the ’95 championship banquet would have to serve milk instead of champagne. Guess what Jeff toasted driver #3 with in the acceptance speech? Race by race, year by year, the drivers tried to keep up, the fans had shouting matches in the grandstands and the TV networks only needed to look at two men to write a storyline. Until one had a crash at Daytona, one that didn’t look too bad on TV. And everyone shook in the void.

Junior ducked his head down for a good few moments. “I should head back. The photoshoot people are gonna hate it if I’m late; Earnhardts don’t pull that junk.”

“Go ahead.” said Jeff. Maybe it was best not to say much else.

The Kid put the net up and hit the switch. _T-t-t-t-t…RRRrrrrr! RRRRrrrrRRRRRRrrrrrrrrr!_ Ahhh, that was better. 

When the 24 car made its third run down course 1, trying to beat its best time, the one that was already quickest on the day, it flew smooth as the wind. Cameras and temporary track lights flashed past in brilliant white against the night. The air dam sucked right to the ground, the shocks were perfectly soft, and the engine rumble he heard was...higher-pitched than normal. 

A lot higher; it was hardly a usual sound at this point. It was…scratchier. More whining.

Had something broken?

Jeff reached to check the shifter, and he caught in the rearview something that, even if it had been there before, was never that massive. Some dark shape.

It plowed into the salt, kicked up a chunk of white, and closed in further. 

That was _not_ the transmission.

Jeff had a split second to jerk the wheel left in evasion. _Flash!_ Headlights ignited and closed in and all of a sudden, skidding wild across the salt, tires grasping desperate for a hint of traction, left and right and sideways and slantways for a good several hundred feet, was the 24. 

The two cars stopped near a cluster of drivers and crew members, all of whom couldn’t stop asking each other questions. 

Mustachioed Bill Lester, two-time top-10 finisher in 24-hour races, veteran of exactly four lower-tier stock car events, was the one driving the 94. _This isn't gonna ruin anything_ , he repeated to himself. _The press is still gonna remember you were here. Right?_

Texas Terry Labonte had the puffy red cheeks and creased hands that one would expect from someone who hadn't missed a race for twenty years. He and Ward Burton, the veteran Virginian with the syrup-thick drawl and the Appalachian log cabin, were talking about it right in front of Dale Jr. 

"This suit just got cleaned," said Terry. "Whoever that son of a gun was, I'm glad they didn't get salt all over me."

"You are?" said Ward, licking his finger. "I gotta take some of this home and put it on a pork chop!"

Dale himself only stood on his toes, fidgeting.

Jeff ripped off his helmet and gloves, clawed out of his primer-gray cockpit, and finally took a clear look at the car that had barreled in like he wasn’t there. The thing was several years old, boxy and sleek all at once, painted metal-flake sapphire. The chrome rims could have been taken from a concept car. On the rear deck, the blade was only two or three inches tall. Tiny decals littered the front fender much like on his own car, and…was that a Hot Wheels logo on the hood? 

He had a _lot_ of questions for the driver.

Jeff took a moment to cool off. First, confronting a stranger was less than thrilling. Second, doing it alone was much less.

He ran forward to seek out the driver, sighing. They wore an open-face helmet, also blue, and stared forward like nothing was happening.

“Where’d you come from?” Jeff called through the closed windows. “Why are you--”

He was shoved back by an opening door. One with a giant number 1 on it, no less.

The driver, helmet now off, marched out. His face put him at about forty, yet every single one of his hairs, including the goatee, was in a scruffy gray formation. Looking down to face his challenger, he snickered.

“Now that’s hilarious. How thrown off you got when I _opened the door_ \- come on. _The door!_ ” He was all but spitting in Jeff’s face. “Did you forget cars had those?”

Jeff sighed. “Where’d you come from and why are you here?”

“We came,” the driver rebuked, “from somewhere you forgot.”

 _We?,_ thought Jeff, right as the modded blue Lumina Z34 was surrounded by company. There was a golden yellow Ford GT90, a green wedge-shaped thing that looked like it came from the future, an exquisite old lemon-colored Ferrari 250 Testa Rossa, a purple ‘80s Monte Carlo, a neon pink ‘50s Corvette convertible whose engine burst out of its hood, and more. Their lights blazed. Their motors roared like beasts. They were practically ready to run someone over.

He peered forward. _Yeah, that would explain it._

“I get it,” the Lumina’s driver said. “You never saw so much…creativity in one place. Must be unbelievable.” 

Jeff noticed, only then, that he was peering forward.

The other man’s voice piped way up. “Can we get the other drivers?”

 _Finally,_ Jeff thought. _Backup._ “Okay, why?”

“We’ve got a proposal. Had to get _your_ attention somehow.”

“You’re not gonna send them flying too?” Jeff asked.

“I’d love to, but...not the time.”

Jeff called out to the crowd. “Uh, you should get over here. But stay a safe distance.”

They did just that. On cue, the drivers of the unknown vehicles surrounded the Lumina. Two came as far forward as their leader, peering at the NASCAR drivers like they were zoo animals. The blonde woman emerging from the green car wore a conventionally long hairstyle, save for the jungle of spikes that dotted her scalp, and a grin so cacklingly, toothily wide it looked about to crack her whole face open. The man that marched slow from the Ford had a tidy black puff on his head and a small frown.

“Now that we’ve made a properly menacing entrance, we…”, said leader announced, “are the Evil Street Machines! Get Gone Goldenrod over here is second in charge. The one with the spiky hair is our tech expert High Voltage. And you are to refer to me…” He paused. “…as Mr. O.N.E. Now let me guess. 'Ooh, codenames! How freaky!' God forbid you think out of the box a little, right? I know what you country boys are thinking!"

"We're not thinking that at all," said a puzzled Jeremy. "Heck, I called my little nephew Zigzag last month and now she wants to change her birth certifica--"

“Yeah, we KNOW what you're thinking! ALL THE TIME!" screeched High Voltage. "Um, we kind of _HAVE_ to have different names?!?!”

Goldenrod rolled his eyes. “Well, yours didn’t have to be so--”

“What would you have if Mr. O.N.E. didn’t step in, _HUH?_ White…Gray…Blankityblank? Don’t talk to me. _DON’T_ do it.”

“So what do you think you’re doing?” Jeff asked.

“Oh, I wanted a little race is all,” Mr. O.N.E scoffed. “And apparently we can catch up to people like you from a mile away.”

The NASCAR drivers perked up.

Jeremy Mayfield gave a playful laugh and pushed ahead. “You challenging us?”

“Jeremy, don’t—“ Dale Jr. whispered.

“Well, that’s what it sounds like,” replied the Mobil 1 driver, casual. “Don’t wanna leave ‘em hangin’, right?”

“I tell you what,” quipped Ward Burton. “Whoever you are, you don’t come out, knock us in the dang backside and say you’re better ‘n us. None of us ain’t better ‘n none of us. I mean, any of us.”

Mr. O.N.E. smirked. “No, we’re not challenging you. We’re saying if you don’t do it, we know you all live on Lake Norman. Gordon, what do you say? You and your friends wanna go?”

Gordon? Only Gordon? This would be easier to answer if he was at liberty to act alone, but if he even implied that - to what was probably going to be the whole of the racing world by tomorrow, no less – everyone would say he’d overstepped and they’d be right. “What…what I say is, it’s not just about what I say.” He whooshed around to face the others. “Do you want to hear him out, or no?”

The chorus of yeahs, lets-get-ems, and such from the NASCAR drivers, though very strong, was not unanimous. 

“I think I heard a no. Junior? Was it Junior? Why do you--”

Jeff and Dale made eye contact, and they were milliseconds away from having the most enlightening, well-paced discussion about the effects of all this. But that was somewhat hindered by the simple matter of High Voltage grabbing Jeff by the shoulders and forcing him back the other way.

“He wasn’t asking _THEM._ He was asking _YOU!_ Aren’t you supposed to be, like, the best one and stuff?”

Jeff managed to wring Voltage’s hands off. His ears hurt more than anything else. 

While Mr. O.N.E. could barely contain another snicker, Goldenrod was less enthused. “You could have said all that just as forcefully without suffocating him.”

“No kidding,” Jeff wheezed. “So how would this work?”

“Three small races spread over the summer. The side that wins two gets the bragging rights - you can make time; God knows we always have to - so yes or no?”

“If we had some time to decide,” Jeff said while trying to peek backward, “that’d be--”

“Oh, of course.” O.N.E. held his hands out. “Ten seconds. Yes or no?”

“Hang on, what?”

“Eight.”

“You’re being-”

“Seven. You know you want to…”

“How do you expect us to--“

The driver of the #24 was being cornered faster and faster into a place he hated. “Five. Come on. We’ll give you the silver Eclipse--”

“Yes.” _Holy mackerel. I actually said that._ “We’re…we’re gonna do it.” Jeff wasn’t about to curl up now; this was going to happen. “We’re gonna beat you. We’re gonna beat you every time!”

“ _NUH-UH!_ ” Voltage yelled. “ _WE’RE_ gonna beat _YOU_ every time! _HAHAHAHA!_ ” She turned to one of her teammates, who said absolutely nothing, and whispered. “I totally got him.”

The two sides of drivers stared each other down, facing their apparent new opponents. No one wanted to be the first to break eye contact; the game was on.

“You’ve got practice for that Poconos race on Saturday, right?” Mr. O.N.E. asked. “I’ll be in the pit paddock at 3 PM so we can negotiate the rules. Come alone, Jeff.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I’ll let you get the first word in if you can beat me back to the end of course 2.”

“Kick his butt!” whooped Mayfield.

“Go show that bully!” said Kyle Petty.

 _PLEASE WALK AWAY,_ thought Junior.

Driver #8 tried to say something over the welcome support but Jeff couldn’t have heard it. “Yeah, we can go out there,” he said with a smile. “They said the track was mine for a while. Just don’t take any cheap shots.”

Mr. O.N.E. followed his opponent to the cars. “Eh, there’s a way to prevent that. We’ll see if you can manage.”

“Then let’s go,” said O.N.E. “And you in the blue calling me a bully…can’t tell you how flattered I am. Thank you.” He disappeared into his vehicle. His team followed.

The speaker system crackled, fizzed, and popped back to life suddenly – as though it had been possessed. _Why, this car is automatic...it’s systematic...it’s hydromatic..._

Goldenrod turned to High Voltage. “You told me you wrote that program for _leverage,_ and it was just to play your favorite song?" He huffed. "You’ve got to be more practical."

She pushed a tiny silver receiver back into her pocket. “NO, I DON’T!” 

The two cars peeled out into the night, and most all the NASCAR drivers cheered Jeff on. Dale, though, could only sigh.

“What are you so worried about?” Mayfield asked him, giving a nudge. “His car sounds fine! Okay, sure, he’s losing, but…”


	2. Pocono Practice

Pocono Raceway, tucked among thick forests and woody lake houses, was alive with the scarlet reds, sea blues, electric yellows and gloss blacks of every car that whipped around it for the final minutes of Happy Hour. There was a beaming yellow sun, a perfect sky. Fresh-burnt petroleum and rubber hung in the air - ah, the scent of it. The Cup Series’ infield garage clanked with wrenches and belts and oil pumps – there weren’t any real points or spots to work for, but boy, would there be on Sunday. The day of the race, the happy cheers hundreds of thousands strong.

The pit paddock’s newest guest almost kicked himself.

The fans started to mutter in an instant – _That’s the guy? – That can’t be the guy, he’s too scrawny. – What do you think his real name is? – You think he’s gonna sign anything?_ He listened to none of it.

 _It had to be here, didn’t it?_ thought Mr. O.N.E. Carved-in autograph windows? Golf-cart escorts? Sheet-steel inspection buildings? Restrictions on coolers? He scowled. _Something this crude has no right to be this stuffy._

But this track was the only place he was sure the squeaky-clean guy from those cheesy bubblegum-pop Pepsi ads would be. The only place he couldn’t run from, like the kid he was--

“Jeanne Zelasko, NASCAR on Fox. Could we get a minute?” The blonde reporter was flanked by a boxy TV camera.

The ESMs’ leader looked like a bear in headlights. “What do you want?”

“Just some questions…Mister O.N.E., you call yourself? I have to ask you, does that stand for anything?”

“Uh, I’m number one.” He rolled his eyes. “Duh.” This was so like the people here - to act like everything among all this sweat and cheap beer was so _complex_. “And let me save you another ten minutes of thinking - we’re called the Evil Street Machines because we’re evil and we drive machines on the street. How hard was that?”

Jeanne, eyes blank, waited for a cue. “Yes, well - ever since news broke of your surprise challenge to a few NASCAR standouts, everyone’s wanted to know – who are you and your fellow drivers?”

The Evil Street Machines had been laying very low until recently; that much was true. He’d been too busy grumbling, before now, to consider that he could use that.

He adjusted his collar. “Oh, we’ve never done this before. Never. But we’ve wanted to for a long time, got a generous grant and...we’re gonna give some people a kick in the shiny pants. The street _will_ come back. You watch.”

“...An ambitious promise from the newcomer today,” Jeanne muttered as the camera swiveled right back to her, “and race fans, you can go to NASCAR.com or AOL keyword: NASCAR to learn how to see him on TV when the action—”

“You’re gonna do _what?!?_ ”, O.N.E. barked to the reporter. “Just - get out of my face, lady.” He turned to storm away.

And ran smack into Dale Jr.

“Watch it! Oh, you...you were there the whole time, weren’t you? So I’d fall in your -” He scoffed and backed away. “Silly me. I expected North Carolina’s Dale Earnhardt Jr. to be so much classier. You want to do that? Okay...watch out in the race. Maybe then we’ll teach you how to get out of the way.” He went off, leering back like a bloodhound. 

_A little longer,_ he mumbled to cope. _Just a little longer._

Little E had, in fact, listened to the entire exchange with his back turned. Drowning out everything he’d just heard with a flick of the ignition switch – or, if practice hadn’t been going on, a cold Bud or two - sounded great right about now. But he couldn’t yet. 

“Jeff, this thing’s pure junk.”

“I know,” The Kid responded, shifting a bit further into the #24 team’s stall at Adam Petty Garage. “But we’ll be alright. It’s just a couple of races - whatever kind of races they’re gonna be.”

“Mr. One or whatever the heck his name is said he and his crew are all rookies, though. The way he slammed you around without trying, that’s junk too. This ain’t just a race. They hate us too much.”

“He’s right,” said Kyle Petty, strolling on by. “I had a nightmare last night about that Voltage lady.”

Jeff turned back to Junior. “I’m...not gonna argue with that last part, but what do you think’ll happen?”

“We’re gonna look like dang fools if we lose to them. The whole sport is.”

Jeff only had a response a few seconds later. “I don’t know about that.”

“Why not?”

“One of them said something about giving me a silver...Eclipse, I think. That’s probably what they’re pulling. They’re gonna make us drive street cars like they do! Ah, dangit, that’s...” Jeff looked out past the meticulous garages, past the grateful autograph seekers, past the devoted officials on pit road, past the bold paint schemes, past the hot black rubber stuck onto the asphalt, past the stands that were half ready to party if his Monte Carlo got junked in the wall and he lost.

“...that’s perfect.”

Dale Jr.’s brow furrowed.

“I know, I know. Just hear me out. We can still be, y’know, awesome racecar drivers,” Jeff went on, “but if we’re doing something different, maybe there’ll be a different crowd. With different...expectations. I mean, for a little—”

“Nope!” snickered a voice. “You use all the cars you brought to the test.”

Jeff and Dale groaned in harmony and turned around slow. It was just who they thought they’d see, wearing a devilish grin.

“Stinks to get eavesdropped on, doesn’t it? Get out here, Gordon.”

The two stopped at one of a few small tables near the garage area, to the surprise of dozens of fans dressed in race gear. Drivers never showed up here. Only one group wanted autographs and pictures, but Jeff still took the time, smiling through Mr. O.N.E.’s attempts to convince them that The Kid was too busy to care. The talk came after.

“I guess I wasn’t gonna get the first word in, either?” asked Jeff.

“Oh, yeah, you were.” Mr. O.N.E. looked up for a second. “You were getting the Eclipse, too. You country boys were all getting the most original pieces of metallic beauty you ever had. Then I heard we’re gonna have cameras and ads shoved in our face when we race you - I never okayed that. Explain. Now.”

“When the NBC people talked to me, they said your team was fine with it. If I’d known, I--”

“Well, they were wrong. They were _wrong._ ” A second, two, and Mr. O.N.E. kicked the table leg.

Sighing through his teeth, Jeff broke the awkward silence. “Want anything else for your evil plot?”

“Our evil plot’s pretty complicated. First, you ever gotten GT-brand gas?”

“...Couple times. Why?”

“We’re using one of their race fuels. We already tested it on a stock car engine, so find a way to bring it to the track for your team and don’t pitch a fit.”

“Alright, I guess tha—hang on, you have a _stock car engine?_ Just lying around?”

“What? We can afford a GT90 too. Oh, and get yourselves some 16-channel radios. We like to...check in on the people we race. Remind them about certain things.”

“No way,” Jeff said dryly. “And what do you mean, team?”

“I was getting to that, geez. I’ll lead my team, you lead yours. The other drivers.”

“So I’m the...team leader, for...NASCAR? The whole thing?” _ANYBODY BUT GORDON._ “This really isn’t just about me; we don’t need--”

“Oh, what, are you nervous? Does Wonder Boy need some more milk?”

Jeff froze. That awful five-year-old nickname, the one that had its origins in the worst of those this _kid_ had raced – from bullring parents screaming that there was no way sprint-car Jeff could really be sixteen as his stepdad used the last of his cash to hand-mold custom parts, to mid-pack owners convinced Busch-Series Jeff was moving up too quick and too easy to ever pay his dues even when he hadn’t won races or trust yet and his livelihood hung in the balance, to the past few years - would have been insulting enough on its own. But he gathered himself for one, infinitely more important, question.

“How’d you know about the milk?”

“It was on TV, Dumbo.” 

“No. I mean--” He glanced down to regain composure. “Never mind that I could bolt some Goodyear Eagles on your car and it would almost fit in on pit road here. You’re doing a lot of homework for something you say you don’t care about.”

Mr. O.N.E. had no answer for a moment. Then he snickered, rose up from the table, and snapped his head down at Jeff. “I get it. You’re think you’re smart, questioning me. You know how old that act is? You know how long everyone has questioned us? Try ever since the first time we hit the street.” He took in a breath. “Okay? Try every time we wanted to race in the one real way, the one way where you have to _adapt_ to stuff, and everyone on the road stared us down like we were rabid dogs or something. Because I guess when you’re tearing up asphalt at 150, you need to be _careful_ now. Try--”

Jeff cut in. “Sounds exciting. How many pileups have you caused?”

“ _I’M NOT FINISHED,”_ Mr. O.N.E. grunted. “I have moved past pouring rain, gridlock, construction sites, and even a couple freight trains to win races. And you walking billboards are going…” He did his best disgusted-little-girl voice. “...‘oh no, little tire marbles in the turns! Eugh, don’t go there!’” A small cough. “You’re out at this place and Indiana and freakin’...France and wherever else, getting coddled with all these pre-made walls, pre-set catch-up periods, VIP boxes – none of it’s real! You’re right, I _care_ about this circus. ‘Cause it never should have happened.” He pointed down to his rival. “And it shouldn’t be about you? _Now_ you’re nervous and you’re saying it shouldn’t be about you? It’s eight years too late for that. Otherwise there wouldn’t be everything from Power Wheels cars to peeing Calvin stickers out here with your number on them. Otherwise there might be one person here that didn’t have some opinion of you. I can see the TV clowns getting it over with already! ‘Live from Pocono Racetrack, it’s _The Jeff Gordon Show!’_ ” He sat back down. “Yeah, you’re the team leader. The one that makes every last decision of NASCAR itself. The one that _is_ NASCAR, everywhere people look...you’re there already. Eight years, Wonder Boy. And you’re nervous.” He held in a laugh for the sake of finishing. “This isn’t about how much I know about you. It’s about one thing I know and you don’t.” He drew in a breath to continue, but didn’t speak yet.

“Which is?” asked Jeff.

“What, you think I’m just gonna tell you?"


	3. Green Flag

Jeff had had countless ideas in his head for July 2nd, one of the only real free days he got in this week off from NASCAR. Maybe he’d go out scuba diving, 125 feet below the surface of the world, where the natural crystal-blue beauty reached in every direction and the phone never rang. Or maybe he and his wife would spend another afternoon at the bowling alley (and maybe, just maybe, he could lose by a margin that wasn’t so gigantic this time). 

But no, he was going to spend it racing with his new worst enemies - one of which had just marched up to him and Terry Labonte. “The boss said you need to pick your team’s title by driver intros."

“I did,” Jeff replied. “The whole thing’s already called NASCAR vs. the Evil Street Machines, so we’re gonna—“

“You can’t. Too obvious, he said. Too boring.” Dressed in a yellow suit with a massive Ferrari logo emblazoned in shiny red across the chest and a tiny black “Old Number 7” right below it, he proceeded to sip what looked like a tiny wine bottle. “He also said he wasn’t surprised.”

Terry spoke up soft. “Whoa, I don't even like to drink within _two days_ ofthe race. I don’t think you should be—”

“Oh, relax. For once, this is seltzer. Couldn’t expect Mr. Plastic Pepsi Can and the cereal guy to understand, but sometimes you need something more refined. More seasoned.” He frowned a bit, which he knew would highlight every deep wrinkle of his sagged face.

“Alright, Mister...uh...” Terry scanned the suit, looking for a clue. “...um...should we call you Ferrari?”

“I actually go by Old Number 7,” said Old Number 7. “Of course, my 250 _is_ the most exquisite, beautiful car ever built. But more importantly, I’ve been doing this since before you were born.” This was another lie. He’d only ever raced with the Evil Street Machines. “Proper name. We expect it.” 

The Hendrick drivers watched him march away until he disappeared. "Is he..." Terry started with disgust, "is he wearing _dress shoes?_ How does that--wait, no. I'm not letting him get in my head." Noticing that Jeff's head was low and his face uncertain, Terry turned to his young teammate. "You shouldn't either. You’re gonna be a great team leader.”

“I’m not," said Jeff instinctively. "I mean, not letting him in my head!” said Jeff. "That's...what I meant. The first thing, not the second thing. Totally not. I'm fine."

Terry, after a pause, chuckled. “I know what you mean. You know, when I started I never thought we’d all be doing this in the middle of L.A.”

Jeff peered down Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard - towards the high trees, pastel-colored homes and small charming stores with temporary barriers in front - then to the massive limestone arches of the L.A. Memorial Coliseum. It looked like he could see for miles either way.

Terry crouched back under the right front wheel well of his #5 Chevrolet, the one with Tony The Tiger’s stripes decorating its front half. “I told them 74, not 74 and a half..." he grumbled soft, peering back up to Jeff. "What’d you have the crew do for rear springs? 425?”

“400,” Jeff responded. The ESMs had forbidden NASCAR crew chiefs and car chiefs from being here - not to mention there were no practice sessions - so it was new for the drivers to do this on their own.

“I hope everyone’s alright with the first thing from the team meeting, speaking of that,” said Terry.

A wayward, bald man ran into the fence, drunk. “NASCAR stinks! Like...like my wife!”

Terry kept his head forward. “Did you hear something?” he asked genuinely.

“Yes.” Then Jeff panicked. “I mean no! Uh, what were we talking about? Notes! Yeah, notes! With these people in charge,” said Jeff, “there’s no way we’re going to a track we had any notes for before. Sharing them...y’know, I think we’ll be alright there. Bill and Ward asked me about setups earlier.”

“Alright, we...what?” A crew member had called out to Terry from the other side of the garage. “Great! Thank you!” Turning to Jeff, he brushed the left sleeve of his suit. “You should head to the corner of here and Menlo,” he said. “The fuel vendor’s here.”

 _Jeff Gordon Motorsports?_ , Jeff thought as he walked towards the corner. No, he could never. As long as he had teammates, anything with his name slapped on top would be unfair. And heaven forbid he do that in front of everyone, literally everyone. _Stock Car Motorsports?_ That was just plain. So no “motorsports”, then... _Stock Car Stars? Stock Car Champions?_ No, no, those were cheesy, people would laugh! People would laugh forever!

When he got there, there was only the mass of street cars buzzing past on the other side of the barrier. Then, off to his right, he heard the faint rumble of a big and unfamiliar engine. It wasn’t as threatening as the cars the Evil Street Machines had, nor did it thump like anything he’d raced. It simply hummed, jittered, as though it was eager to go and finally pull something else. The tanker truck was a small four-wheeled one with bright orange paint and surprisingly shiny rims - an older model, Jeff figured when he saw how rectangular it was. The “GT Gas Tanker” logos on either side of the Ford Iveco’s rounded gray tank were accented by red and black streaks.

Its driver parked and scurried out, brushing long strands of dark brown hair out of her monolid eyes and adjusting the collar of her gray and orange firesuit. Spotting the garages in the distance, she made no effort to stop scurrying.

“Whoa, whoa,” Jeff called. “It’s okay! You’re where you need to be!”

The tanker’s driver stopped short and rushed right to Jeff. “Oh, wow. My bad.” She peeked over his shoulder to the garages, almost desperate. “This is really where the race is?”

“You won’t be able to see a lot this early.” Jeff put out his hand. “I’m Jeff Gordon. Nice to meet you.”

Reluctantly, the trucker turned away from the commotion and faced him. “My name’s Candy. Like the song.” She shook. “Candy Thanh-True.”

“Cool suit. Nice truck, too, but...” Jeff inquired, “you got all the gas here in that little--”

“Doesn’t look like it, but this thing’s towing capacity rocks.” She hugged an orange fender, and her eyes beamed. “It’s on loan from one of the terminals overseas. You wanna check it out while I grab the capacity forms?”

“Not now, thanks. I’ve got to think some more about what to call the team. The other team didn’t like what I sent last time.”

Candy raised an eyebrow. “Why does the other team get to decide what you can do?”

“We talked about the rules a week ago and it didn’t always turn out good. Also they’re kind of scary.”

“Oh, they can’t be _that_ scary. There used to be street races down by me all the time; this is just a—” An infectious smirk took over her face. “Heeeeeeey...I know how to help you.”

“What are you thinking? And where are those capacity fo--”

“I’m thinking we should have some fun with this. Tell you what; I’ll help you brainstorm if you beat me in Concentration.”

“And if you win?”

“Uh, I don’t -- hm. Maybe...I’ll name it after me.”

“It’s a nice idea, but I think I—” _Racing Champions? Race Chasers?_ She didn’t have to go through the trouble. There had to be _something_ people would take seriously. “I appreciate it, but I can...uh...” _Team Steel? Team Southern? Team Fast? Team Fast and Furious! Team Fastex!_ Wait, that was something else. _Team Moonshine!_ Great, endorsing hard alcohol in front of all the kids; that’d make him a swell role model. _Team Pepsi! The Pepsi Challengers!_ No, no way he could get a contract together this soon. And didn’t some of the stock cars have Coke decals anyway? But Candy didn’t have to help, really. Maybe he could look at everyone’s cars for inspiration? _The Red Flames! The Yellow Stripes! The Tigers! The Things That Maybe Sort Of Look Like French Fries If You Squint!_ Okay, bad idea. But she didn’t have to help. She didn’t. _Team Asphalt! Team Blue Sky! Team Brick Wall! Team Stucco! Team Slightly Torn Roof Shingles! Team Used Gum On The Ground! Team...Team...team..._

He let out an amused sigh. “How do you play Concentration?”

“You ain’t a bit nervous?” Junior asked before catching himself. "Uh, with you being new to this and everything?" And Bill Lester shook his head no.

“The circumstances could have been better,” Bill responded with a smile and a shrug as he fiddled with his wheel in the cockpit, “but we can’t change that now. We’ve gotta take what’s here and try to win; that’s what counts.” The only Black driver to climb into a Cup car since ‘86 had such a smile for a reason - signing a Truck Series contract for ‘02 with the same Dodge initiative Bill Elliott had helped to kickstart had already come with small benefits. Like getting to hop in that old car of his back at Bonneville. He’d done quite a few double takes upon first entering the garages here, garages filled with the legends of the Winston dang Cup Series. 

Dale leaned down into the window of the McDonald’s car. “But it’s just, like...” He paused to search for the words, and his brain was vulnerable. _We are the Evil Street Machines!_ _We’re gonna give some people a kick in the shiny pants. The street will come back, you watch._

“Shoot, man. What’s gonna happen when they start cheating?”

Bill put down his helmet, hair standing on end. “Did you see something? Soaked tires? Oversized carbs?”

“The way they’re talking,” said Junior, “I think it’s gonna be more like buzzsaws and oil slicks. I don’t think they look up to Smokey Yunick, know what I mean?”

“That’s why we have independent officials doing inspection and balance-of-performance, I guess. But if you’re worried, talk to Jeff. He’ll know what to do.”

Another pause from Junior. “You think?”

“Junior,” he continued with wide eyes, “we have a three-time champ in charge. That’s an incredible spot to be in. The other guys told me about the foundation and the church work and the way he treats his crew...and then, of course, there was that time the autograph host wanted to cut it off but he--

"I get it."

"All I mean is, we can learn from the guy. I think he’s the most mature person we could have—“

“I hope I’m not letting y’all know at a bad time,” uttered Jeremy Mayfield as he scooted into the 94’s garage stall, an inch from knocking over someone’s toolbox, “but Gordon didn’t pick the team’s name yet and he’s playing some hand game to decide. Who’s got ideas?”

Junior had never groaned so loud in his life.

“Shrek!”

_Slap. Slap. Clap-clap-clap._

“The Sound of Music!”

_Slap. Slap. Clap-clap-clap._

“Mission Impossible 2!”

_Slap. Slap. Clap-clap-clap._

“Crimson Tide!”

“You already said Crimson Tide!”

“Wha—”

“That’s a repeat!”

“Oh, man.” Jeff chuckled. “Well, it’s a good movie.”

“I guess I won,” Candy announced in a singsong voice, smirking again.

“I guess you did,” said Jeff, softer. “What are you thinking?”

Candy tapped her head for a second, two, three. She said nothing.

Jeff spoke up. “Candy’s Crashers? No, that’s stupid. The Thanh...Team of...I don’t know, do you—”

Candy snapped back to the real world. “I got it. I got the perfect thing! It’s so classic.” She rushed to whisper something in Jeff’s ear, and he had to step back as soon as she did. 

“I love it. No way I'm using it, though.”

“Why?”

“They’re gonna...I mean, some people might think--”

“What, you're gonna go back on a deal?" she challenged, playful. "In front of all your loyal fans?"

A moment or two. She was right. Not in the way she was thinking, but she was right - and the ESMs weren't going to be thrilled. "Okay."

“Thanks,” said Candy. “Cool. They said I should head to the terminal down near Bardsdale in a few minutes if I’m gonna get back here for the halfway thing.”

“Hang on,” Jeff asked, “you have to go to another refinery? They didn’t have you get everything?”

“GT has some _weird_ capacity regulations for this part of the state, trust me. ” Candy rolled her eyes up. “But don’t you have, like...a halfway thing? A break in the middle?”

“Yeah; the other team didn’t want to have regular pit stops.”

“So I’ll give your crews what I have, go get the other load,” Candy continued, climbing into the truck, “and bring it here by then, kay?”

“Thank you,” Jeff uttered over the engine as he slipped her a Post-It. “If you have questions, here’s my cell and my pager. And my publicist’s.”

Candy took it and waved back. “No prob! Tell the other team I said hi.” Putting down the window and loading a Lâm Nhật Tiến CD from the changer, she rolled off.

Most all the race’s spectators had packed in near the street course by the time a huge stage was rolled onto the frontstretch for driver introductions. There were only a few of the merch trailers, sponsor stages, and assorted things people could have any fun with before the race started. But there were plenty of hot passes, and people from every corner of race fandom had been spotted with them. There were old fans and young fans, there were fans in plain clothes and fans with nine-year-old car tattoos on their forearms wearing pit stop dioramas as hats, there were fans that loved stock cars and fans that didn’t and fans that _really_ didn’t. There were plenty of signs up in the stands, too.

_Right Turns? You Already Lost, NASCAR!_

_MARRY ME DALE JR.!_

_GO HOME REDNECKS_

_NBC – Nascar will Beat the Chumps_

_MY DAD THINKS I’M AT SCHOOL_

_I’m Just Here To See A Great Race_

_ANYBODY BUT GORDON_

_REAL RACING IS SPELLED E.S.M._

_Ward Burton #22 Rules!_

“Never seen so many people at a stock car race wearin’ Formula Indy shirts,” Ward mused as he scanned the mass of people. “Think those two are lookin’ for an autogr—nope. Thumbs in the ears. A’ight...Huh? Aw, ‘course I can, what’s your name?” 

Jeff Gordon was faring worse. Sure, there were those few diehard people dressed in red flames from the hat to the pants, the few that wished him luck and shook his hand in earnest. But as soon as those few left to grab their seats or their lunch, as soon as his sight shifted out to the people dragging Gordon flags behind for others to stomp on or the people that had duct-taped his face to...was that a _Teletubby?!?_...he forgot anything good had ever happened. He kept his smile glued on, but it was so small up against the real world and--

“Mr. Gordon?” A chirp from below.

Mr. Gordon turned down. The child, about four feet and shadowed by their mother, wore a black Earnhardt tee. Their entire giddy, dark face gleamed with fresh-squirted sunscreen. Their outstretched hand held a 1:24 of one of California Speedway’s red show cars...and a silver Sharpie.

From afar, Dale Jr. noticed the shirt. He kept looking.

“I’m Hoku,” the first-grader said to Gordon. “Is it, uh...okay if...”

Jeff almost pinched himself. An Earnhardt shirt? And they didn’t want him dead? 

“Absolutely,” he uttered as he took the weighty diecast in his left hand, the marker in his right. “Is the windshield alright?”

“Yeah, yeah!” Hoku uttered. “Thank you! We came here all the way from Super Van City."

“You’re welcome.” Jeff signed. “You know, I, uh, haven’t gotten to talk to a lot of Earnhardt fans,” he inquired, as casual as possible.

“Oh, they hated you last month,” said the adult, smirking in her #3 hat.

Hoku gasped. “Moooooooom! Don’t tell him--”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Jeff laughed. “I’m glad you changed your mind...what, uh, what made you do it?”

“Well...the evil people think you’re bad drivers,” Hoku said. “They said NASCAR stinks. But you’re the NASCAR team leader and you’re gonna beat ‘em!”

“Dang right, kid!” a Gordon fan declared from afar. “They messed with the wrong sport!” The number of cheers and whoops that came after - still small - was a few more than Jeff expected.

He heard it, and he stepped forward to savor every sound. This was it. This was how everyone could appreciate him.

NASCAR _had_ to win. 

“What exactly are you looking at?” A voice from behind Junior. Dale jumped around - stumbled - to find Get Gone Goldenrod wearing a puzzled frown.

“Nothin’. Why do you want to know so bad?”

Goldenrod peered out at Hoku’s shirt and stopped short of rolling his eyes. “Really. That’s still consuming you.”

Dale stiffened up. “What’s it supposed to do?”

“Oh, I’m only saying,” Goldenrod retorted. “My family hasn’t seen me in years. I don’t spend so much time being emotional, though.”

“Emotional? Wha—” More fans. Black shirts. Junior’s fist clenched; his eyes could practically choke a person. His voice turned harsh and ragged. “Is it you that didn’t see them, huh? Did you ever bust up that fancy GT50 or whatever the heck it is, and...and go home and lay down crying like you killed a guy, and your dad walked in and wondered what the heck you were doing feeling sorry for yourself? And he helped you up and walked you out to the porch and the conversation didn’t stop until the sun went up? Did that ever go on? Did you care?”

Goldenrod, still stoic, smacked his lips. “This is what I’m talking about."

"What in all heck is 'this'?"  
  
"Something I've seen before. People grow up under a wing, and they don't know who they are without it. You of all people should have been prepared for that, _Dale Earnhardt Junior_. But look at you." He went off to two of his teammates, leaving Junior alone and shaking amongst the crowd he couldn’t see.

One of those teammates, wearing the same orange as his ‘96 Chevy 1500 pickup was painted in, sported bristles dark enough to look plastic and a long matching mullet. His iridescent sunglasses made him almost impossible to make eye contact with, which was perhaps intentional. The other, bulging with veiny muscles and almost bald, wore slick black leather with a thin string of orange streaking down the arms. He saw yellow. _Darnit, he’s coming._

“Uh, yeah, I do weight machines all the time! Big heavy weight machines and giant...uh...meat. Giant meat. It’s great, I know...oh, what’s shakin’, Triple G? I was talking to Splat about how much—“

“Don’t call me Triple G and do not say anything is ‘shakin’ ever again. You were supposed to go tell...him...about Blueshell by now, no?”

“I didn’t--I mean, no!” The deep voice had not quivered. “Mr. O.N.E. said not ‘till we get what we need from Meatz! He probably knows I gotta save my big strong manly voice.”

“Oh, great. Go ahead. Do this again,” Splat snarked. “I bet after part 759 he’s finally gonna believe you.”

Goldenrod breathed out. “You’re not helping, Splat.”

“Not like he’s listening. What else is new? You know, I keep saying this part of the plan was a dumb idea. We could have just tried to--”

Goldenrod shushed him. “90% of Blueshell was mapped out five years ago - please, for one day, stop trying to reinvent it. There’s a reason you don’t have the keys to the tech room.”

He laid his hand on the other driver’s bulbous shoulder. “And that was a _small_ mistake, SmashChamps. I still expect you to keep doing what you need to.” He exhaled sharp and began to walk off. “Alright. We’ll do it at the start of phase two.”

“Great!” yelled SmashChamps. “’Cause I’m gonna punch Gordon in the...uh...nose! With my hands! My hands that have bones in them!”

“He drew number 14, so he’s shotgun on the field,” a voice boomed over the PA as the drivers tucked in behind the black stage, “driving his purple ‘89 Monte Carlo, #47...SmashChamps, of the Evil Street Machines!”

“YEEEEEEEAAAAAHHH!!!!” he screamed, hoarse, as he sprinted out and flexed. “I HAVE BIG MUSCLES! LOOK AT MY BIG MUSCLES! I’M GONNA BUST YOU OPEN LIKE YOU’RE A RAGGEDY ANN - NOT THAT I KNOW WHAT THOSE ARE, BUT STILL!”

Bill was starting sixth. Lest he step up and greet the flashing cameras too early, he had to remind himself of that a few times. 

“I’m trying to understand you people,” Goldenrod told him with a glance at the grandstands, “but if that mob cares so much about who we are, why don’t they just marry us?” He eyed the logo-dotted McDonald’s suit. “Less expensive, probably.”

“You run your race, I’ll run mine,” Bill cautioned. “Is that okay?”

“Great idea!” Jeff had beelined onto the scene. “Good way to deal with it.” A glance at Goldenrod. Then back to his teammate. “Like I always say.”

“What do you always say now?” Junior had also appeared.

“Nothing. I want to be sure we’re all ready,” said Jeff, studying Dale’s look. “We are. Totally.”

“Oh yeah, we’re so ready that our leader just got here,” Kyle laughed, giving Jeff a tiny love tap.

Goldenrod cut in. “Ah, there’s Jeff. Shorted your brain out picking a name, did you?” 

Kyle stopped laughing and shot Goldenrod a frown.

Junior left no time for anyone to keep talking. “What the heck—we picked an awesome one, you little--”

“Don’t let him get in your head; I’ll handle it.” Jeff stepped in front, patted Junior’s shoulder and faced Goldenrod. “It took some...discussion, but we've actually decided on a title that reflects our—”

Another boom from the PA. “Starting 11th, Winston Cup’s two-time winner and son of late legend Dale Earnhardt...”

 _This again._ Junior eased behind the giant doors, his eyes draining. _Great._

“...the latest generation in a storied family dynasty, proud to take up the mantle...”

_This is it, I guess. I don't listen to Matthew Good; I don't wanna meet Tyra Banks. I'm just Earnhardt._

“from his father that we all miss so dearly...”

_KEEP DOING THIS, PLEASE. I'M HAVING A GRAND OLD TIME HERE._

Mr. O.N.E. had snuck up to Goldenrod. "Well, these guys stink, but there's one thing they haven't _completely_ screwed up." Jeff eyed him, not sure where this was going.

"Sure, Jeff's first crack at the team name was lazy, boring and expected for someone with a brain that tiny, but I thought he was gonna be all 'We're called the Super Awesome People That Are So Much Better Than Everyone Else!' I would have punched something."

"Oh, _wow._ " Jeff muttered to himself and looked away. "Thanks for being such a good friend."

The PA finished up. “Here he is, race fans...it's Dale Earnhardt Junior...of the True Racers!”

O.N.E. and Goldenrod's faces were stone as they craned around to face Jeff.

Sweating, Jeff chuckled nervous and scratched his head. "Hey, uh, did any of you catch Weakest Link last night? Man, I can't believe that Jerry guy didn't know the answer was baked beans. I mean, come on--"

In the next instant, the only thing separating Mr. O.N.E.'s fist from Jeff's temple was Goldenrod's palm. "He gets the point, boss! He gets the point! Don't do this again!" He dragged him away kicking. “True Racers? I thought you couldn’t be any more pompous!” barked Mr. O.N.E., and Jeff groaned. 

"Good news from her should calm you down. I hope." Goldenrod pointed Mr. O.N.E. to High Voltage, fussing with her hair again. Grumbling, then taking a breath, he stepped to her. “You have it ready, right? It’s in your car? Right?”

“After you boosted the stock I had in GT? Oh, yeah,” she cackled. “Had to make a couple more tweaks in the morning – stupid code always takes FOREVER, I wanted to kick it in the face a BILLION times, but yeah. I did it. It’s good.”

That cooled him down enough, and he nodded in reassurance. “Reliable as always. Hope you go rip ‘em to pieces out there.”

“You too, boss.”

“Oh, you watch. I’m gonna do it three ways at once.”

“Drivers, start your engines!” Everything sparked to life, the throaty Monte Carlos and Tauruses and Intrepid and Grand Prix, the whiny old pink Corvette, the GT90 and the 250 Testa Rossa and the buzzing green whatever-the-heck, and more, the sounds distinct and meshed.

If you were there that afternoon, let’s say right at the exit of pit road trying to poke your head out from between an old green Dale Jarrett shirt and a navy drag-racing blazer, you saw High Voltage and Mayfield screaming out for the pace laps first. Then Old Number 7 and Splat, SmashChamps and Terry, and so on, in neat rows of two. 

Jeff had rolled out from the left of row four - right beside the #1. He and the field had one lap to snake slow behind the pace car. The engines snarled at each other. 

“Jeff?” the radio crackled. Junior. “So we're, uh, we're going with True Racers?”

"I like it," said Ward. "We're true racers, aren't we?"

Bill scrubbed his tires back and forth. "It says we're confident. You could have even done ‘Real True Racers.’ Would have been twice as confident. And then if you did Real Actual Total Tr--”

"Well, the fuel vendor came up with it, not me," said Jeff. "It's funny, actually, we played--"

“Yeah, yeah, Jeremy saw all that. He told me – Jeremy? What? Listen, any other week I'd go skydiving with you in a _second,_ but there's...a lot going on, okay? Jeremy? Jeremy!" Junior fiddled with the dial, confused. "I don’t know what that was, Jeff, I guess these things bleed through a little, but...oh, real funny, Voltage. You better watch your back when we--that's not my name! Wha-- Who the heck is Brandon? Hello? Hello, I said--”

Jeff tried to restore order. “You, uh, gonna be a while?”

“I don’t care how much you can lift, SmashChamps!” Dale groaned. 

“It’s gonna be alright, Junior. Let’s run a good race,” said Jeff. No response. “Junior?” He still wasn’t coming through. That figured.

Three turns. Two. One. Here they came. The pace car was gone, the swarm of cars bunched up, the fans stood in desperate awe, Jeff breathed. NASCAR was about to beat these wannabes right into the—

“Don’t screw up the start, Wonder Boy!” Mr. O.N.E.’s voice.

By the time Jeff stopped hearing the radio and stomped back on the gas, the green flag was already waving.


	4. Street Smarts

High Voltage got the jump off the line and down into the first 90-degree left-hander Mayfield tried to gasp back, brakes glowing lava orange on entry, a nose in underneath but the green car shot out on exit. The cars flew down the next long straight with a supernova’s fury, shuffled into line, then a sharp elbow left again as Old Number 7 got by the 12 car for second. Back on the gas, right, hammering down Coliseum Drive, soft left-right-left on the border of the Coliseum and onto Hoover Street and Junior clipped down on Goldenrod with the left rear trying to get a run. Smoke. _UrrrrrRRRRRR!_ A slide. The 8 wobbled one way, the other, the other...lost two spots and gathered it up. 

“You mind?” scolded Goldenrod as the cars took another hard left. “We have eighty laps of this yet...”

The twin hairpins. Right 180, straight for a bit, left 180, and the fans bobbed their heads left in a collective wave to find Voltage pulling away, her electric motor screeching down the street like some demented Tyco RC car. The Ferrari, weaving more than it should have, still followed.

Jeff was still around ninth by the time he rolled into turn 1 to start lap five, entered too late, weaved high, heard a loud “Brandon made sure you were Bran-done, baby! Get it? Bran-done!”, and saw a skinny blonde guy in sunglasses drive the pink Corvette right by him, guffawing. _Oh, I get it_ , Jeff thought, straight-faced. _The joke is that “Brandon” has “don” in it. You oughta go on Comedy Central for that gutbuster._ Tenth now. None of his teammates had radioed to him since the green.

“So I heard Brandon of all people scared you enough to make you lose your line,” O.N.E. taunted over the radio from third place. “I knew you didn’t have much _fight_ in you, but...geez...”

Jeff turned the dial. “You’re gonna see how much fight I’ve got.”

“I can’t wait,” said O.N.E. as he turned his mic off and chuckled. “True Racers. Wonder which of you legends came up with that one.”

Candy was deep in traffic, shrugging off the barrage of angry honks from the cars and vans and big rigs traveling with her. There was something more important to listen to. “Baby’s good to me, you know, she’s happy as can be, you know, she said so...” she sang, drumming at the steering wheel, “she’s in love with me and I feel—”

Her gold Motorola phone buzzed on its stand. _Aw, really?_ she thought. _I was just getting into it._ She turned the volume down and answered on speaker.

“Driver of GT gas tanker serial NO-242, ultra-light class, we have you scheduled for a pickup of octane 100 racing blend at Bardsdale terminal. Please confirm.”

“That’s me,” Candy responded.

“Alright, and this is for how many gallons?”

“The answer to that would...happen to be...” She trailed off. Why did she forget? What was missing? Of all the times to not know the one thing that – 

‘... _you wanna check it out while I grab the capacity forms?’_

She’d never brought them to Jeff. “Didn’t the receiving party contact you at all?”

“I don’t know how long you’ve been here, but that’s not standard procedure.”

“Oh, of course not,” Candy sighed. “Listen, this thing’s capacity is exactly...exactly...a lot. So if going a little over isn’t—”

“Who’s gonna use what you don’t?” The voice got quieter. “The company just restructured. Management’s gonna kill us both if we waste any resources.”

“I’m gonna figure it out! I can—”

There was a faint yell from the other side of the call, then something shuffled around. “I need a number in five minutes.” Click. Dial tone.

“Alright, Candy...you’re gonna be fine,” she told herself. “You’re gonna be fine; all you have to do is make a—” That’s when her eyes caught the Post-It.

And hung on it. And hung on it. And hesitated. 

“But...” she said, “what am I talking about? They’re racecars!” Her small smile grew into a relieved laugh. “I know how they work. They’re not -- space shuttles or anything! You go out and have fun with them on the weekend, they’re not gonna – oh my gosh.” She slapped her head at the thought that she’d almost gotten nervous over this.

And she called again. “150.”

High Voltage got bumped out of the lead by Old Number 7 at the end of lap 17. “What was THAT for?” she radioed back to her teammate, sawing the wheel to take back control and protect second.

“What it’s for is you got greedy, kid. I’m faster than you.” He rocketed away from the green car. “Should’a let me by two laps ago.”

Jeff had clawed back to sixth a lap before halfway, Goldenrod was keeping a frantic Dale Jr. at bay right behind him, and the only True Racer ahead of them was Ward in fourth. As desperate as things were, Jeff could have sworn he’d be getting more calls for advice. He looked back to see Dale take another useless swipe. “Junior?” he radioed in. “Want me to keep Goldenrod occupied and you can make a run? We need to start making moves if we’re gonna get up there by halfway. Talk to me.”

“The 15’s wide as all heck! What can we do?” Junior asked at the same time. “Jeff, please, if you’re there, lemme know what we can do.” Silence. “Ugh.” He switched his radio dial to Ward when he hit the next straightaway. “It’s Dale Jr., got a copy?”

“Sure do,” said Jeremy as he slid out of the last hairpin. “You change your mind about skydiving?”

“What? No!” Why wasn’t this working and why wasn’t Jeff coming through? The field soared down the main straight and the 15, the guy that had gotten into it with him before the race, pulled even further away. Two lengths. Three. Four. Dale was _not_ going to let this guy leave him behind. He had one choice. 

Goldenrod eased onto the brakes into turn 1, turned smooth, no squeal at all, there was a huge blur of red on the left side of his mirror and a _PSSSSHHH!_ The Monte Carlo and the GT90 hooked together, rode up the track together, the gap between them spitting smoke that got in the fans’ eyes, the tire barriers waiting a foot, six inches, three inches away, and Goldenrod zoomed back ahead when they came apart and exited the corner. 

Pieces of something had fallen onto the road, but there was no yellow - Mr. O.N.E. had demanded back at Pocono that they never be thrown; Jeff had only gotten him to pull a little bit back from that. So it would have stayed green here unless one of those cars had stopped right in the racing line.

“So this is how you are,” said Goldenrod to Junior after shaking the impact off quick. “This is what Dad taught you, isn’t it - bully your way to the front and you’ll get private jets and magazine deals? That’s all you know how to do, isn’t it? What he did?”

“My dad was the toughest son of a gun you ever met,” Junior said, “but I’m not...” 

He zipped by a clump of fans pressed against the fence. It looked like...black shirts? 

“...but if you keep this up I’m gonna show you _everything_ he taught me.” 

“Oh, go ahead,” Goldenrod mused. “Prove me right.” 

Jeff had seen the whole spat in the rearview. “Junior! Junior, can you still drive?” No noise.

“Some leader,” taunted Mr. O.N.E. “No wonder none of you know how to turn right.”

“Can we just race, please?” Jeff nailed the entry to turn 4, launched the 24 into a huge run and took fifth past the Coliseum. The 22 of Burton, spoiler growing fast in the windshield, was next. Jeff got by the yellow-and-black Dodge with a swoop to the inside of the first hairpin and turned back onto the frontstretch. A few car lengths ahead was the number 1. 

“Look who caught me,” said Mr. O.N.E, glancing at the red flames in the mirror as the field flew into the first turn. “Hey, don’t you all have this old saying about catching people? It’s one thing, but passing them is, uh—”

“—it’s about to be real easy if you keep it up,” Jeff interrupted. 

“Oh-ho, now that’s rich,” snickered O.N.E. “Voltage, make sure you got that.”

“What?” said Jeff.

“What?” said O.N.E.

The field zipped under crossed flags. Halfway.

Fuel had to be reloaded during the break, and Jeff’s crew was quick heading back to the car after being the last ones to stock up from the GT truck. The gas man got there first. 

“Good time, Craven,” joked the rear tire changer. “You should tell Andy Pap the extra gym time’s payin’ off.”

“Hey, Jeff said we’re working together here,” said Craven. “If I’m getting sharper, we’re all— ” He hoisted the can. It felt a little lighter than usual.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, uh, I did do, like, four sets of curls last time—”

“Oh yeah?”, SmashChamps challenged as he strode by. “Well, I did, uh...nine sets last time, you...girl...person!”

Craven stood puzzled for a second or two. “I don’t get it.”

SmashChamps grumbled. “I called you a girl; that means I’m better than you. If you don’t get that, you must be...” He shifted his eyes. “...a girl!”

“SmashChamps!” Mr. O.N.E. had called him to the 1 car.

“Goldenrod corrected the order to you, right?” he asked quiet when SmashChamps got there. “About Blueshell?”

“Uh-huh, he ran right up to my big huge biceps and--”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. Needed to make sure after he okayed the TV deal _on his own._ ”

“You were out negotiating with Meatz that day. He thought—”

“How do you—wait. Were you right there?” His left fist balled. “You saw him do it and you didn’t stop him? You didn’t call your actual leader?”

“He thought you would have _wanted_ to be seen. And you always tell us not to nose into what the higher people do anyway. Keep the team running.”

“I want to be seen on my own. Not behind some funny-looking graphic for—” His fist unballed. “Forget it. Just...get in the car and do the job. We have this about locked up.”

Second half. Just over a lap to go. Mr. O.N.E., then Gordon, flashed around the hairpins in a monolithic blur.

“Ron?” asked Jeff? “Can you hear me? How do the calculations on fuel look? The gauge is going real far to the left!”

“I don’t--” Static. “—crew fini--” Static. “--good to the end. I don’t see--” Static.

 _It’s something,_ Jeff thought. _Good to the end. Let’s do this and focus._

Frontstretch. White flag. 1, 24, then 15 a good four seconds back. Down into the first turn, Jeff went low, the 1 went wide, they were even for one, two, three, the 1 got a jump and went back in front.

“Hilarious,” said O.N.E. “How you think you know the street now.”

“Well, you—wait, no. Can you please be quiet?” Jeff groaned. Into turn 2, Jeff swiped low again, got alongside, O.N.E. came down hard and...swerved back right? And he still had the lead. 

Backstretch. “You must be a mess, Wonder Boy,” O.N.E. taunted. 

Coliseum. “About to lose to a bunch of--”

“Stop it, 1. Just drive—” Jeff was fading...

First hairpin. “This is your new legacy.” 

Last straight before the second. “No, it isn’t, you—” _Get it together,_ Jeff thought. _Prove it on the track._

Last turn. The 1 lengths ahead. “Knocking your whole world down while it watches. Watches _you_.” More lengths ahead, past the standing fans.

Something had to happen.

So O.N.E. got a dented-in rear bumper into the last turn. The move was, any way you looked at the telemetry, slow and easy enough to be a love tap - barely enough for the 24 to get inside. But somehow the Lumina slid up wild, got passed, got traction back, lost traction again and looped 360 in its own tire smoke.

“Yeah!” Jeff yelled when he set up corner exit, and he gunned it to zoom down the frontstretch and take the victory!

Except when he pressed the gas pedal down to gun it there was no rumble. No sound. No speed.

He pressed it again - again - the car refused. 

“Guys?!?” he radioed in. “Are you seeing—” He cut himself short when he saw the 1 go back by on the right, on and and on and on in the distance, until it was a blue dot under the checkers and the cheers.

All he could do was coast to the line.

“Yeah, there were problems today we didn’t see coming between the fuel, and the radio, and...that’s gonna happen sometimes,” he told an NBC reporter beside the car on pit road, wiping the sweat off his forehead. The sounds of Mr. O.N.E.’s decidedly camera-less victory lane party were starting to be accompanied by boos. _Why?_ , thought Jeff. _Why are they still—No, no. Interview. Focus, Jeff. Stop doing that._ “We’ll get the kinks out as a team and go on to...go on to...wow. I’m, uh, so used to knowing where the next race is, but they didn’t tell us yet...” He forced out a laugh.

“What happened in that final turn?” the reporter asked.

“I didn’t want to spin him out,” said Jeff. “I didn’t. Bump-and-runs happen all the time, and I wasn’t gonna get by him any other way.” An ear pointed to the stands. Still booing. “I know I should be expecting it back, and I’m...absolutely prepared.” Still booing. Maybe if he said--

“First to sixth in one straightaway for Jeff Gordon today. Thanks for your time.”

“Oh...you’re welcome, Dave.” Time was up.

He didn’t look at the crowd. Couldn’t. But his first chance to appeal to them had started with desperation, and the desperation made things worse. Great. Just great. He was also going to have a heck of a time getting the team’s morale up, but if he didn’t start soon...

Wait, who was that walking into the garage? Red and black. _Junior!_

There were no press conferences after this race, no tight-knit formalities, so of course everyone was already back to the garages. Jeff raced to the temporary sheds looking for him. What he found was a bragging High Voltage, holding a kludged-together box with dials and screens soldered to it. And also him. 

“You IDIOTS!” she shouted. “Hahaha! Of course we cut him off! You think we were gonna LET him help and have everything go right for you and your babyface of a team leader? As if! And look where you all are now! We won! You lost! Hahahahaha! HAHAHAHAHA—”

The box was in sparking pieces on the floor and Junior stared down the debris like he was a champion boxer. “Well, that shut you up.”

“I said it! I told you it was a bad idea to gloat, I told you five times, but noooooo,” Splat gloated loudly. “For some stupid reason no one trusts me.”

“Screw you both,” said High Voltage. “I needed that for next time and it took me, like, THREE MONTHS to get all the—”

“High Voltage!” came Get Gone Goldenrod’s low voice from further away. “Did we not just talk last week about bragging?”

“I don’t know, what did Mr. O.N.E. say?”

“I--I know what he says,” Goldenrod grumbled. “You don’t need to do it all the time.”

Voltage gazed back down at her creation, gathered up the pieces and slinked away, leering at Junior. “I’m gonna get you back for that.”

“--the most un-Earnhardt-like drive I ever saw out of anyone named Earnhardt,” a tiny radio buzzed on a fan’s table right outside, “and I’m counting that time Kerry wadded it up in the 71 last year. C’mon, Joe, the way he got shoved around...and the couple of times he actually tried to come back he got slaughtered? People are telling me he’s gonna light the world on fire, but he...” The voice was low, probably early forties. They were muffled; obviously calling into the station.

“I think a lot of people are bewildered by his performance today, yes,” came a more clear, nasally voice, “but what do you make of this radio situation with the 24? And race fans, if you’re just joining us, we’re gonna play the most notable clips from the second half again...”

 _“Jeff, this is Junior. Don’t know if you can hear me this time, but are you backing off any sooner into 1?”_ Static. _“You’re gonna see how much fight I’ve got once I get to you.”_

 _“Hey Jeff, it’s Ward. If you're there_ _, I think it’s gonna be hard for ‘em to pass us these last few laps as long as...long as...if we, uh...dangit, I’ll come up with somethin’ in a sec...”_ Static. _“—it’s about to be real easy if you keep it up.”_

Jeff and Dale turned to each other, lost for words. The ESMs hadn’t cut him off; they'd done something different.

“Oh, what did you all expect?” the caller ranted. “Anyone with half a brain knows how prissy Jeffie gets whenever he’s not the one getting the glory, so I don’t know what the other guys were thinking when they said he was gonna be the _leader_ or something. I don’t buy his little nice-guy act about what he did to the 1, either. What a joke. I might go out and take the Stewart flag off the pole, it’s that big of a joke.” Dial tone.

“Okay—I know a lot happened out there,” said Jeff. “But it—we can—it’s okay; we—”

“Who’d you get for fuel?” said Junior.

“GT gave us someone from a terminal close to here; I didn’t think anything—”

“I’m gonna go let ‘em know we’re not taking their bull anymore.”

“No! I mean--don’t worry about it. I’ll find her; I’ll talk about whatever happened and make sure GT doesn’t do it again.” No response yet. “I will. It’s my responsibility anyway.”

At that, Junior settled lower, as though he'd been waiting for something. Sighing reluctant, he left his team leader alone. “Fine.”

Treading briskly through after hearing the skirmish from earlier, Kyle and Ward stopped short at what was on the ground - one of the pieces High Voltage had forgotten to pick up. "Wait," said Kyle, giving Jeff a sad look, " _this_ is why we didn't hear from you all race?"

"Yeah, she just sabotaged me. No big deal." He let out a small laugh. "I am so sorry; you guys must have thought it was my fault. I was--"

"You better be sorry."

Jeff's smile evaporated.

"What, you weren't on top of the ESMs enough to see that coming? That's your job! For gosh sake, they hacked Grease music onto the PA back in Utah! I had to do that show in high school, man - I spent _days_ washing the hairspray out!"

Eyes widening, Ward spoke. "I knew that stuff was bad news."

"And then we lose in the last turn because you got us a dodo brain for a fuel vendor? This is nuts." He leaned into Ward's ear as the two plodded back to the garages, whispering. "I miss Dale."

When he got back to the 24 hauler, Jeff dialed Candy’s cellular. One ring. Two. Three. Four. _“Hello, this is Candy Thanh-True. I’m, uh, not able to get to your call—”_

He waited a minute and tried again. Maybe she hadn’t heard it that time. One ring. _“Hello, this is—”_ Silence. Nope, she’d heard it. _Wherever she’s hiding_ , he thought as he swung the hauler door back open, _I gotta find her so—_

She was right there, head down. Firesuit and all.

“I thought it’d be better to meet you up front,” she said, her arms stiff at her sides, her voice seeming stable enough. “I apologize.”

“It’s...alright, but,” Jeff sighed, taking a slow step outside, “I do want to know what happened if you have a minute to stay out here and —”

He couldn’t help but notice the mass of crew members slumping from place to place, hoisting tire racks and crash carts and tools...slower than usual in their disappointment. Some noticed him. Then they turned their head back.

“Actually,” he inquired, “I changed my mind about your truck.”

Candy found a faraway lot to park the Iveco in. “If you’d spent a while on calculations and then it turned out the numbers were off after, that’d be one thing,” Jeff explained to her slow, calm, “but these are 150,000-dollar cars and there’s a million things you have to get right if you want them to work. Let alone be fast.” 

“Okay,” Candy conceded, nodding, still processing all this new information. "Okay." And there was silence for a few seconds. Jeff had given her the time she needed to take this in - _I think she gets it,_ he thought. _Finally,_ _something today that went the way it was supposed to._

That's when she hung her head down, with a sigh that wouldn't have been so small had she not cut it off - and ever so faintly, he heard part of a mumbled song escape her mouth. And he saw the glint of a tear droop at the bottom of her right eye.

"Okay," she said again. "Great." And she went back to mumble-singing.

"Candy, hang on. Is this--"

“No, it’s not!” Candy blurted. “I mean..." She could feel it on her right cheek now - Jeff had noticed for sure. She stopped rushing. "I just--I kinda--I, well--I thought this was gonna be fun."

"What...what do you mean?"

"It's not you, it's just...in all the other jobs I did, all the places I supplied for, it was always get the stuff, bring it to the places, get maybe a quick little look into how awesome other people's lives are, then go back and wait to see something fun again. No pressure. No attachment.”

"There's lots of different people that come into this sport. The unattached ones don't last."

“I mean, I know what it's like to drive too fast. When I lived with my aunt down in Georgia, she always let me borrow her Corvette for track days and street meets and club races whenever I had off work,” said Candy. “She set the car up for me. No one in the stands, just drivers driving. Shady people showed up sometimes, but I always beat them. Then there was that time someone…”

She shut her eyes tight, holding herself back from finishing the thought.

“...what was I saying? My jobs. I do this because I already tried all the proper, _important_ ways you’re supposed to find something to do in life and...there was always something _important_ I got saddled with. Some way for me to not be happy. For me to be a...disappointment.” 

Jeff leaned closer. “A disappointment?”

“Totally. People act like you’re supposed to be some way, and then you’re not, and then they hate you.” Candy took another look at the mass of corporate logos on Jeff’s suit. “I know you’re this big superstar, but...do you know what that feels like?”

Jeff, sure that all his effigies had actually been burned by now, treaded lightly. “I can...sympathize.”

“I feel like I’m the only one. Like, have you actually--”

The obnoxious long honk of a white pickup on the street, and a whoop from its driver, cut her off. She glanced into the mirror to find a crossed-out 24 across the door.

She took a quick peek outside. “Why did you want to go all the way out here again?”

“I thought it—” Jeff started, but he had nothing. “I thought I...I mean, I thought _you_ would--”

“And why’d you hesitate?” Candy smiled again, and she could hardly contain it. “Oh my _gosh,_ ” she gushed, somewhere between commiseration and relief. “I’m not the only one. You do know?”

“Well, I did—a while back, but—”

“You know now, don’t you?”

“Wh—this doesn't have to get so personal--”

“Oh, no, you don’t. I told you my secrets, you tell me yours. What happened so far in the past?” She locked the doors.

Jeff checked both windows before accepting defeat. “We’re never gonna see each other again, right? And you’re not gonna send a letter to Speedvision as soon as you’re out of here?”

Candy gave him a reassuring nod. “No one in the world has to know. Well, except me.”

Jeff took a deep breath. “It wasn’t that far in the past; it was when I started this. I was never really supposed to be here...half my life, I thought I was gonna go race Indy cars with the rest of the slicked-back hotshots from California. Then one day I got in a stocker down in North Carolina. It felt right. Like this was the one thing I wanted to spend my life -- anyway. I jumped in, hardly knowing anything about this sport, and everyone down south knew something was off about me at first. And at first, I got why.”

Candy said nothing.

He looked down for a few moments, running a hand over his three-time-champ badge, over the worn stitching of his right racing glove. “I guess I thought by now...I wouldn’t have to see thousands of people acting like I killed someone. To keep asking myself...what did I do?”

Candy, snapping out of her speechlessness, spoke up soft. “I’m--I had no—”

That was all she got to say before the ESMs’ engines drowned her out.

She and Jeff saw the Lumina, the GT90, the Ferrari, and every other one blur by. “That’s not...” she gasped. “It is.”

“Yeah,” Jeff sighed in annoyance. “That’s the other team, alri—”

“Mr. O.N.E.! Get Gone Goldenrod! Old Number 7! High Voltage! I think SmashChamps is even still there; how’d that happen?”

“You weren’t at the track for driver introductions,” said Jeff, his eyebrows rising. “How do you know all the--” 

His jaw dropped and he slumped in his seat. “You gotta be kidding me.”

Meanwhile, the ESMs were peeling past a stopped cop car. “Eh, did you see somethin’?” asked the officer in the leaned-back driver’s seat, eyes cracking open.

“I, uh, I think so,” grumbled a rookie cop on the passenger side, stretching his arms out. “Someone was going a little—hey, there’s two more CapriSuns in here!” He grabbed a pair of drink pouches from a box under his knees, tossing one to his partner. “Here’s to keeping the peace, am I right?”

Around the corner, SmashChamps clobbered a fire hydrant.

Candy’s eyes went wide. “I know how I can make it up to you.”

“No, really, you don’t have to—”

“I can stand way up on the roof of the spotter stand and help with strategy! No one’s gonna see – uh, I mean, it’ll be so easy for you that way!”

“Oh,” Jeff muttered.

“You don’t even have to pay me,” Candy emphasized. “I’ll tell GT you wanted me as your fuel vendor for the next couple of weeks,” she said in a rush, “and they’ll make room in my schedule for it. Without even knowing!”

“But you would...y’know, see me again,” said Jeff.

“Yeah,” said Candy, “but it would help your team. It would help NASCAR.”

Jeff looked out the window, pondered, tried to come up with some reason, any reason at all he could argue with that after today. He couldn’t. As much as he was shaking at this idea, the True Racers needed help after today. The sport needed help. And if it could come from him - if he could fix the mistakes he’d just made...

He cringed and finally spoke up. “Alright, but two things. One, if you’re gonna be part of the team, and if you know as much as you know, I can ask Rick to get you a car and we can do some testing before the next race.”

“I—I don’t know,” said Candy, the story Jeff had told her still fresh in her mind. “I’d rather focus on one thing. Help you all.”

“And two,” Jeff continued, “I _am_ going to pay you - wouldn’t be fair otherwise.”

A pause from Candy. “Oh, okay. Uh...”

Jeff stuck his hand out. “Welcome to the True Racers. Thank you.”

Candy shook. “Yeah, no problem - ooh, can I put Britney Spears on for the drive back? I have her whole discography.”

“Sure - that makes me think, actually,” said Jeff. “I’m almost booked with Pepsi appearances next weekend, but what if you went somewhere important with a driver then? Sort of a scouting trip to get a feel for this?”

“Cool,” said Candy. “Where?”


	5. Daytona

It had beaten too many people to count – ground them up merciless and kicked them away. Even before February – the last turn, the wall, the 3 car with the net still up – part of the legend people whispered was that it piled hardship upon heartbreak on all but those who could say they won, wrung heart and gut, separated the brave from the weak. Dale Earnhardt Jr. had come early.

He wandered slow through the dewy grass after his buds parked the Suburban, toward the tire marks. The steps broke the silence of the morning, the calm of a place built to contain chaos. He scanned the fence, the old asphalt, the kindling Florida sun. This was a test; he was waiting to break down - better to do it here than in front of all his guys. He stayed and stayed, gauging for a tear, a crack in the voice, a memory soured.

Nothing. Daytona was still here.

A practice session later, he was one “Can you win it?” away from vomiting. Of course he was capable. His team’s restrictor-plate program had been one to watch out for since the end of last year - the engine had been good enough for second quick tonight and the chassis had handled like it was flying over clouds. He made it seem as easy as his dad had. But around every single spectator and pit official and tire carrier here, from the moment they saw a show car or the hauler or one of those plastic Welcome Race Fans posters with Junior’s unwavering daredevil face on them, there was an invisible understanding. Not just of what could happen in the Pepsi 400 on Saturday, but what _would_ if the world still made any sense. What had to. Heck, _JUNIOR RETURNS TO DAYTONA_ was even bigger on the second page of Winston Cup Scene than _DID A RIVAL HACK RADIOS TO FRAME GORDON? FANS ARE SPLIT._ So with every flash of the camera, every arm with a 3 or 8 tattoo reaching out right in front of his face, the question sounded less and less like encouragement.

Infield reporters. “Dale, the question on every single person’s mind – your father had 21 victories here, he did well here in February and so did you...”

Dale took advantage of the pause and jumped in. “It’s a long race, a long rest of the weekend, so I don’t know, man. We’re gonna keep working at it and nothing’s gonna fall in our lap. Whatever happens happens.” The reporters thanked him for his time and he retreated to his infield RV.

Five minutes to think was all he had before Candy knocked.

In her apartment, there were a few diecasts. Jeff’s first Brickyard win was leaving rubber marks from sitting for years on her wood nightstand, one of Juan Montoya’s open-wheel cars was on the kitchen table and a street Corvette was lying sideways next to her bed.

On rare nights she’d get home from work, hands sore from lifting, eyes worn after staring too long at the theme park or pet store or fireworks factory she’d dropped off at for her bosses to care much about her, and there’d be a race on. Roaring engines, flashing colors, brief wide smiles. Then the commercials would come on and she’d jump to MTV, Animal Planet, the race, HBO, the race, Sci-Fi. Whatever best drowned out the throb in her hands, made her ask any question at all that wasn’t about the rut of yesterday and today and tomorrow and the next day. She caught the closing laps, rooted for the car that looked brightest. But when the checkered flag came down, she had to get to bed right now or the higher-ups would lecture her on how being early was _important_ , projected growth and upselling and shareholder value were _important,_ unpaid overtime was _important,_ and the route would be harder to concentrate on, those new fleeting places would be even less visible, the time until the next street meet would feel like a year -- wait, who won again?

And what was that thing the announcers said about his family? 

The building outside of turn 4 that they called Daytona USA was a booming, sparkling motley of color and noise. Lug wrenches screamed, simulators rocked, entire bodies lifted off stock cars to reveal their underpinnings. But a quiet hallway had been carved into the exhibit – Goodyear’s Heritage of Daytona. When you entered, you saw black-and-whites, worn gloves, the ol’ Bluebird speed-record car that had written a legend on the beach here before anyone had thought about Bonneville, and you got closer to now as you neared the end of the tunnel. 

Candy’s eyes lit up at the sight of a blue-and-red #43. “Oh, I saw this one once! It was Richard...Richard something? Something with a P, don’t tell me, it’s on the tip of...” She shrugged; scanned the news story on the wall. “Petty. Right. I knew that.”

Dale, trying his best not to show his disbelief, kept his eyes on the memorabilia and the stories as they kept walking. “You know, uh...Jeff was telling me you raced before.”

“I did,” said Candy, almost scoffing, “but it wasn’t, like, a big serious thing. I just did it ‘cause I liked it.” 

“This is a big thing for me;” Dale muttered, “that don’t mean I don’t like it.”

“Well, yeah.” The pictures drew her in further. Hugs with fans, sprays of champagne, engine-grease handshakes. Parts of this that she never knew existed. “Look how many people wanted your autograph on the way here - I guess you’re not like Jeff where everyone hates him for some reason. You can’t disappoint anyone.”

“Well, I, uh…” Dale silently looked away, grimacing, then back to her. “Hey, did you see the—”

“Oh, wait!” Candy interrupted. “It says there’s another car down at the end. Let’s go check it out!”

“Oh, yeah, I, uh...” Dale couldn’t look at her, and he spoke low. “I’m gonna need a minute.”

“You okay?” Candy asked. “Are you getting sick?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” said Dale, and slowly his words became a little less subdued, a little more pointed. “I just...y’know, I need a minute. Y’know.”

“Okay…” Candy started, incredulous, “it’s...it’s a car. You’re gonna be fine—”

Dale cut her off. “Candy, what’s my last name?”

She had nothing for a second, two, three, and she looked around for clues. 

“...Earhart?”

She could practically see Dale sink. His lips unclenched, his eyes lost the fire. Then his phone rang. “Hey...What?...Yeah, sorry. I’ll be there to get mic’d up in a bit.” He hung up, took a few steps away, then remembered to look back at Candy. “Stay as long as you need to. Please.”

“Dale, wait...” she uttered, but he was gone, already jogging through the neon signs and story-tall sponsor logos of the Velocitorium, apologizing with a mustered-up grin to the fans that saw him - he was late to an interview, he had no time, he was sorry, he was sorry.

With a pained sigh, Candy looked back toward the end of the tunnel. Toward the thing she didn’t know.

Whatever it was, Dale probably hated her now and that was the reason. If she was going to mend things with him, with the team...the only way she could start was by knowing why. It was – dare she think it – significant.

The red and white roses bundled in black were the first things she noticed coming around the corner. Then oak-tag signs and balloons, American flags and checkered ones, newspaper clippings and book pages, diecasts and Polaroids and little Hallmark cards and half of everything had a Sharpie signature at least two lines long, an I MISS YOU or a GOD BLESS YOU or a WE LOVE YOU. Behind it all was the Monte Carlo. Black number 3.

“Miss him too, don’t you?” A wrinkled woman walked to the scene, slow and reverent. 

“Oh,” said Candy, caught way off guard. “I—I didn’t know him. Did you?”

The woman’s husband followed her - they both had the same Goodwrench cap on. “We, uh, met him for an autograph one time,” he laughed. “‘Course, if he said he was our neighbor down the street with the horse pasture, he could have fooled us. Could have fooled anyone. That’s what people saw in Senior, ya know?”

 _Senior?_ , thought Candy. _Why does this all ring a bell?_ She glanced around the scattered trinkets. _FOREVER THE MAN_ , read one small sign half-covered by other things. A picture of a mother and her son, posing giddy with the legend after an autograph. A drawing of his Chevy speeding to victory – obviously a child’s, and detailed down to the lug nuts and the valence. A grainy shot of him and his father turning wrenches under the hood of a short-track car. A cutout of his steely mustache cracking upward with his smile as he embraced a fresh-faced rookie winner. A son. Junior.

Candy forgot to breathe for a few seconds. 

She cleared her throat and stammered. “You must have loved him so much.”

“We came down here to see him for something like fifteen years,” said the man. “We almost didn’t this time...couple of our friends canceled their tickets after the street thing in California...but we couldn’t stay away. Remember how it felt in ’98, Marsha?”

“Not gonna forget ‘til I die. And even then...”

“I, uh—this is my first time here, so excuse me,” said Candy, her eyes widening. “What happened then?”

“Have a look,” the man said, motioning to a blown-up newspaper cover hanging on the wall behind the Chevrolet. _First at last: Earnhardt._ “Every single 500, we came here praying he’d do it. All of us did. Guy was champion seven times but when he went down here in February bad luck always got him. The fuel in ’86 and the tire in ’90 and the second places in ’93 and ’95 and ‘96 and the flip in ’97. We were there. Then we get to ‘98, Marsha and I, we’re sitting in...I think it was Roberts—”

“What? Joe, no. It was Weatherly.”

“Alright, alright. Well, he’s got the lead with two to go and we’re looking at each other thinking ‘aw, man, we’ve been here before’. And I look back for a minute and...normally everyone’s hooting and hollering by this time in the race, but they were all...almost...holding their breath. Once the cars went by it felt like you could sing a lullaby to that baby in row five and she’d hear you. Didn’t matter if they were 3 fans or 2 fans or, heck, freakin’ 24 fans, if they were--old farts on a retirement tour or little kids with their parents, they were thinking the same thing.”

“Why?” asked Candy.

“Racin’ changes you. Gets you in the gut.” said Marsha. “No one wanted to tick off God.”

“And when he won?” asked Candy.

Marsha took in a breath, looked up, sighed wistfully happy, needing a moment or two or three to even begin putting together a worldly description. “Absolute rapture.”

“You should have seen the man himself when he got to victory lane.” Joe added. “Everyone and their momma was smiling as big as he was.”

Candy looked back to the car, now staring, focusing, as though a part of it had come off. “All that for a race.”

“Don’t you start calling it just a race. Not ‘round here,” chuckled Joe. “Shoot, Marsha, is the shuttle here?”

Marsha checked her watch. “Two minutes.” She and Joe picked up their bags. “Good night, uh...”

“Candy,” she called out. “Thanks!” The couple sauntered off, arms locked, and she was alone with the past again. 

She stayed, she was silent, she read the stories and analyzed the images more curiously. Every Sharpied goodbye, every story of family members trading paint together, every recap, every flower, every clipping of _Black Sunday_ in bold above Earnhardt’s car nosing into the concrete. At Daytona.

And when she’d taken in every last word she stepped back out into the light of the Velocitorium. She saw it all, and the snapshots of joy she saw were strange new things, colorful puzzle pieces she couldn’t quite fit together. But they were here. Families cranking wrenches and rolling real race tires at do-your-own-pit-stop attractions, in awe of what they were accomplishing. Kids picking their favorite drivers’ cars at the video game setup, adjusting their caps with a determined smirk. Couples with matching tattoos and different cars on their graphic tees, families and friends, striding into theaters and simulators and showcases.

Places to start.

Dale had been turning virtual laps at the computer in his RV for half an hour, his collection of war and history games piled beside the screen, when he heard another knock. Taking a glance at the black #3 car far up ahead of his on the screen, he paused and let go of the wheel. His dad had never had one of these, he remembered. When he’d brought home his first computer for sim racing and gaming Dale Sr. called it a waste of time, like most of his fans had. _Good thing I tinted the windows,_ Junior thought.

Another knock. A quicker one.

His eyes shut. _Please let her know better now._ He slinked down the marble steps and swung the door open. _I’m not gonna...Jeff?_

“Hey,” said Jeff. “How’s it been going?” 

“Oh, it’s been going great,” Dale muttered. “That’s all I got to report. It was...awesome.”

Jeff chuckled. “Awesome. I came by ‘cause I had a surprise for Candy.”

Dale got quieter. “Oh, she’s still over at USA. She wanted to...check out the simulators, I think. You should go catch up to her there if you—”

“You didn’t go with her? You love that stuff.” Casual, he gestured to the PC. “It’s not like yours has a hydraulic motion base...or a second player.”

“Aw, it was...she, uh…” He had nothing to say for a second or two. That’s when Jeff walked onto the first step.

“Junior, what really happened?”

Junior recoiled, then scanned around the dark parking lot. Tonight had weighed on him, and there hadn’t been a way to get it off. No windows were lit; he’d had to deal with the junk of today alone.

Until now.

Jeff wasn’t his first choice but there wasn’t going to be anyone else to vent to until race day. “Come in.”

Jeff swung the door behind him gently and the two sat at a carved-in couch. “She didn’t care is what happened,” Dale said, as low and blunt as an old steel hammer.

“Didn’t—didn’t care about what?”

“My dad’s car! The end of Heritage, the little tunnel or whatever it is, where they left all the flowers and...and...we get near there and she...it would have been okay if she just didn’t know, but then she...she didn’t care.”

“What’d she do?”

“She thought I could just walk in front of it and not have to care either.” His voice rose - became something stubborn. “Like it was some black jalopy someone drove around, and everyone smiled at it for two seconds and got back to their lives. This _is_ my life; it’s a million people’s lives! Does that matter to her? Does anything?”

“I’m sorry. I thought this was gonna help, but—”

Junior stood up, leered down, cut in as Jeff jolted back. “I did too, but it got worse! Why’d you handcuff her to me in this of all places? Right after we got into that stupid Evil Street Machine thing and wound up looking like a joke? Why here?”

Jeff let Dale breathe for a moment before speaking up. “Because,” he said, “you’re the best here.”

Junior’s brow unfurrowed again. A moment, and he slumped down in defeat.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay, it was a compliment! I knew she could learn the most from you, and from this track. Well, that and you’ve been tearing up the plate races lately, but—”

“Well, let me take a wild shot then.” His voice was still drained and cynical, but softer. “You _know_ I’m gonna win on Saturday. You already bought the sparklers for _when_ it happens because it’s my destiny and my poetic justice and I...couldn’t _possibly_ screw it up. I told Tony and Mikey this same thing, but...shoot, the whole track feels that way. It’s in the air. They expect it. My dad was great, but my dad’s not here, so now I gotta fill the void for a country’s worth of people hurting with me. I gotta - I knew that as soon as it happened. You saw my face on the replays at Rockingham - that wreck on the third dang lap that looked just like his.”

Jeff eased in. “You looked awful. And I don’t kn—”

“Yeah, because I--I mocked him,” said Dale. “And I mocked him when I cut that tire at Atlanta and I mocked him when I tried to wipe out Goldenrod and I’m gonna mock him if I can’t get this win. What if one of these days they go ‘aw, he ain’t his old man’ and they start booing me? It’s…” He tried to hide it, but his voice broke. “It’s scary, man!”

“I mean, I—” Jeff paused to choose his words. “I know how it feels to be scared.”

“No, you don’t! I see you every time at driver intros; everyone’s booing and you keep going...whenever the TV guys grill you about it you go, ‘Nah, I love it, we’re gonna make shirts that say Anybody But Gordon so we can make money, ha ha ha.’ You don’t know. You’ve never had it get to you.”

Never mind that Jeff was the tiniest bit defensive after hearing that - he had also seen the pain in Dale’s pale blue eyes. The sophomore was wrong about the race being such an end-all, he thought. But it would be a crucial race for him - maybe the most crucial of his life. And he couldn’t race like this.

“Junior,” he muttered, and he had to squeeze the next part out of his throat by force. “I always let it get to me.”

Jeff’s face went pale. _What have I done?_

For the first time in those two minutes, Junior looked right at him. “What?”

Jeff breathed a few times. “Being the bad guy for no real reason isn’t as fun as I make it look.”

“Is that why you were thinking about Formula One?” asked Dale, leaning in a bit.

Jeff shuffled his eyes around, putting something together. “That...wasn’t what started the conversation. No. No, Honda had a well-thought-out plan, was all.” A pause. “But, you know, I said no. And -- and -- well, the point is, you’re not alone. And you deserve better than to think you are.”

Dale parted the blinds a crack and gazed at the scoring tower, the catch fence, the asphalt banks etched with enough stories and rubber and Florida sun to last centuries. He heard the midway, the campground, all the people celebrating and anticipating. Then he turned back to the man that had spilled his deepest, darkest secret for a fellow racer’s sake. “Well, thanks. For telling me. I mean, I still don’t know what the heck I’m gonna do, but thanks.”

Jeff nodded in his direction, looked around for a few seconds as though searching, and made eye contact again. “Did I ever tell you about Rich Vogler?”

“No, you...wait. Five-national-midget-titles Rich Vogler? Eight-dang-Hut-Hundred-wins Rich Vogler? I forgot you met him.”

“I didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to. Then we packed up for Indiana - he was the star everywhere from IRP to Salem. I’d watch him get by me, so...in control even when I was sure he was about to wipe out, and wish I could be half that awesome someday.”

Dale steadied his pose.

“So one night I’ve gotta be four seconds behind him at the white flag,” Jeff continued. “I get to turn 3, and there’s a car up in the wall. His car. Everyone in the pits when I pulled in...is looking down, not saying much, and in maybe an hour we find out he...”

Junior sighed.

“The next race rolls around,” Jeff started again, awkward and slow, “and on the grid in pre-race, I look up at the stands - everyone looks so gutted. So scared. And something in me says...if these people don’t get their void filled right now, it’s never gonna be the same for them. I strap in and decide I’m gonna go like he did. Hammer down every single lap, no holding back ever. Or at least don’t look like I am. And what happened was—”

A cellular phone’s ring cut in, jolting them both. Jeff brushed it off and took in a breath to finish, right as Dale saw there was no caller ID. 

“Shoot. Pick it up.”

“Hope you didn’t forget me, Wonder Boy!” Mr. O.N.E. cackled. “Got some news.”

Jeff pressed the speaker button. “How do you have this number?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. O.N.E. dismissively. “How did the owners of that gluttonously massive super-duper-speedway you’re at make $243,794,302.95 in revenue last quarter, but when I ever drive I’m the devil?”

Jeff and Junior exchanged a confused glance.

“Exactly,” interrupted Mr. O.N.E. “Heh. Anyway, you know why Red Dust took until this month to close? ‘Cause our second race is gonna be its last.”

“Red Du--wait, that place in Idaho? The one with the wacky esses and the clueless promoters?”

Dale jumped in. “With any luck it’s gonna be your last, too.”

“Oh, nice one, Junior,” said O.N.E. bitingly. “You came in so quick there, I think you forgot the—wait. Junior?” He made something between a sigh and a growl. “What, are you listening in on me to get an edge, huh? Is the whole team? Oh, wow. That stupid bully Mr. O.N.E., we’re gonna show him, we’re gonna...sneak behind his back. What’s etiquette? Duh, that word’s too big for me, Mommy!”

Jeff spoke firm and calm. “It’s only the two of us in here. No one else is—”

“Well, High Voltage got me some free TrackPass for the weekend. Don’t let me catch you two whispering to each other the next couple days.”

“Why not?” said Jeff.

“Lake Norman, Wonder Boy! _LAKE. NORMAN.”_ Dial tone.

Jeff stared at the phone, puzzled. “I don’t even live on Lake Norman.”

“I think he was being general; the rest of us do,” said Dale. “You gonna talk to our fuel vendor next?”

“If I know her, she’s not gonna answer the phone,” said Jeff as he walked back to the door, sighing. “I’m gonna go out and find her at the—”

She was through the door in an instant and Jeff was pressed against the wall trying not to get run into. “He could see the air!”

“What about the air?” asked Jeff, un-pressing himself.

Candy made a beeline for Junior. “That’s what they said he could do, right? ‘Cause he was so good at drafting that when he won his last race he came from 18th place with three laps to go? And nobody left for an hour?”

Junior leaned back a touch. “Wait, do you mean--"

“He won seven cups and he tried to win the biggest race here for twenty years and then he did and everyone was—well, anyway, I’m sorry.” She crouched to be at eye level with him, her voice unstable. “I don’t know how I didn’t realize; that guy that was on the news nonstop around Valentine’s Day was your dad.”

Junior was silent in taking all this in.

“I saw everything and I...tried to understand it. What this place did to mean so much to him, and you, and everyone. I was so stupid earlier.” She took in a long breath. “Can you forgive me?”

All Junior could do was stand up, reach out and give Candy a hug and a couple of pats on her upper back. “I can." Something else coming to him, he turned to Jeff. "Wait, what time is it?”

“Uh, around 10,” said Jeff.

Junior turned back to Candy. “Holy mackerel. You stayed that long, huh?”

“You said ‘as long as you need to’. They had this—this IMAX movie about people prepping for the 500! I’ve never seen anything that big in my life, I...I think I even know what a restrictor plate is now? I think?” Her eyes were lit like new campfires.

"Jeff," said Junior, "why’d you say you were here again?”

“Oh yeah,” said Jeff. “Candy, what do you say we all head to the Pepsi stage? Your night’s about to get better.”

“Thought there’d be more of a crowd," said Junior. "Isn’t it starting soon?”

“I’m Jeff Gordon, remember?” The dozens of people amidst the cerulean stages and displays in this section of the midway, to him, seemed like nothing compared to the hundreds that weren’t.

“What’s starting soon?” Candy asked in between sips of her second free Pepsi Twist sample. Taking a quick peek at the impatient fans from behind a stage wall, her attention turned to what was in the rest of the midway. She spotted a Dave Blaney Amoco show car, one of those vinyl banners tied to a fence that advertised the Truck Series - Ted Musgrave’s number 1, Jack Sprague’s Hendrick 24, Lance Norick’s 90 - and a Kodak film giveaway flanked by cutouts of whoever that was in the 4 car this week.

 _Cool, I didn’t know NASCAR had trucks,_ she thought. She started to pull back – until she noticed something back in Pepsi territory. _No way._

“Pepsi’s not letting me say what it is until it happens,” Jeff replied as he whipped around to face her. “Maybe then we might get a--”

She was running for a two-player sim rig off to the right.

Jeff came out behind her. A few people in the sparse crowd put their hands to their mouths, rubbed their eyes, took pictures. The programs and diecasts came out, the autograph requests. “I’ll, uh, be with the rest of you soon,” he said, quickly signing one woman's hat for good measure.

“Hey!” he called when she got to the setup, which no one was in line for by now. “You’re not skipping the surprise, are you?” 

She was already at the wheel. “No, I just haven’t done this in a while.” A deluge of tracks came onto the screen; she picked one 1.5-miler as soon as it came up.

“Atlanta,” said Jeff, curious. He climbed into the other seat. “You’re on.”

“Oh, you’re so on,” said Candy, playful. “Hope this is one of your better ones.”

“First track I ever raced Cup at,” Jeff said as their two cars rolled off on screen, in front of half a dozen others. “First Busch win, too. Rick can tell you where he was sitting for it.”

“You’re kidding,” said Candy.

“I think I got top 5 the past couple of times we went here, but I haven’t closed the deal in a while.” He narrowed his eyes as the pace car turned off – green flag. 

He punched it, got the jump into 1 and 2. She dove it in too hard, had to chase her virtual blue Dodge up the track and almost to the wall, its speed scrubbed off. It disappeared behind virtual Jeff Burton and Tony Stewart. _That’s a shame,_ he figured on the backstretch. _Hope she’s a gracious lapped car._

He was half a second ahead by the time he got out of 4. He eased off into 1, played with the throttle through 2, gunned it to head down the back again and there was something in the mirror. Gaining a little. Blue Dodge.

“How about that?” said Jeff, chuckling. “Nice save!”

“I had some practice,” Candy shot back, feathering the gas into 3 with precision. She was a few lengths back now – gained a bit, lost a bit, settled the car. “My aunt had connections. They let us in the driving school whenever it was in town - Richard Petty…right, I knew I saw it somewhere.”

She made up the ground fast, and the next time by, Jeff checked their times. 29.43, 29.51. It was almost enough to throw him off his marks.

Jeff took the next set of turns silently. “How long were you in Georgia?” 

“My stepdad...never really got me or my mom. He hated that I wasn’t a boy, and he hated seeing me bounce around workplaces more.” Lap three. She’d only fallen off a few hundredths.

“He hated you from the day he saw you? I couldn’t imagine.”

“No,” she said, “he liked me for a few years. But he made me go there because he thought I’d get a real job...I couldn’t ever tell him I was more focused on the racing. My aunt had always left that part out before I came over. He always said it was for people with nothing important in their life, and sure, it was just something I had fun at between shifts, but it was fun. Then she had someone get me into a GT2 club car or two. I didn’t stick around much before or after the races - not that too many tickets were getting sold there anyway - but they were a blast and I did pretty good…”

Her voice lost the pep.

“...then he found out. And I’ve had to be on my own since.”

“Get that fashion model off the simulator!” squawked a stumbly voice. “She’s—” ...it made a heaving noise, as if holding something back. “She’s a hacker!” Candy saw a lanky guy in a Ricky Rudd cap, half a gag reflex away from upchucking a gallon of Bud Light, trying to climb over the wall from the Dodge display. She tried to keep looking forward.

“I seen people hackin’! I seen people...steal races that...that I spent a hundred thousand dollars on a Logitech wheeeeel for, a’ight? They stole ‘em! Stole ‘em...How else is she right behind Wonder Boy, huh? Huh?” A little slip into 1. Jeff saw. _If this guy comes any closer,_ he thought, _I’m getting up._

“Dan!” Someone grabbed the man and pulled him out of sight. “What did we talk about? Stop it right now; the kids can see you—”

“Aw, shuddup...” Candy was loose. “...get a job, you fake!”

Looser. Overcorrected. T-boned by virtual Buckshot Jones.

“We’re both heading back to the stage,” Jeff told the attendant as he slinked out of the seat. “Let the fans know I’ll be back out in a few.”

Candy settled in near a metal pillar backstage, head in her hands. Who was she kidding?

“Candy, it’s okay! You did grea--” Jeff saw something and his breath cut short. “Oh my gosh, turn around.”

Going all the way out here just to screw up? She was having so much fun and then--

“Hey, Jeff told me you were coming,” came a voice, and Candy’s jaw would have gone to the floor at the sight of her bodymic’d, Pepsi-blue-shod guest if it could have. “I’m Britney.”

Dale Earnhardt Jr., in the number 8 Budweiser Chevrolet, son of the Intimidator, second-year phenom, prodigal heir to stock car legend and yadda yadda yadda, rolled off the grid thirteenth. Thirteenth. The 51 of all cars was right in front of him, the blank white one without any headlight decals. “How’d I let that happen?” he mouthed. He shifted onto the banking and gulped a little, still not fully used to that slantways lurch.

“...so she leans into her friend’s ear and whispers, ‘She must be a bird brain!’” Candy chuckled. “Get it?...Because the bird was...on her head--”

The man in the black tux muttered “Oh, that’s funny”, and took another sip from the same plastic Budweiser cup everyone else had. “Hey, watch.”

The Anheuser-Busch suite turned their heads as one when the 8 went by for the start.

With nineteen to go, Junior was in the lead. 

He’d kept trying to see the air, straining his eyes past the windshield to try and track a hint of a gust, a stalled wake, a flurry over that new blade on the roof, yet the air never showed itself solidly enough. 

He still tried, though that hardly mattered. The engine was good enough to put him out front for a hundred laps, the chassis had handled like it was flying over fluffier clouds and green-flag pit stops were starting. No one’s tank could last to the checkers without one. Compton and Schrader came in, then Labonte and Stewart and even Benson in that gleaming white Valvoline machine. Junior saw them peel out of line to open the floodgates - had he waited too long to show his hand? He radioed in. “I’m coming next time,” and all the fans in red and white and black, all the short people and tall people and young people and old people in #8 hats and shirts heard that on the scanner.

Right as an avalanche of smoke flew up out of 4.

 _Crunch._ A couple of Chevys tagged each other, crashed up and down and sideways into unsuspecting traffic. _Crunch._ The thousand-pound hunks of steel behind the mess swerved and jolted, visibly desperate. Some darted past by inches. Others... _crunch._ Jeff Gordon pulled into the pit with dents the size of easy chairs. Compared to Mike Skinner he was lucky.

When yellow-flag stops were over, Junior, for the first time in hours, shook in his seat. Everyone who was smart enough to come in before the caution would restart ahead of him. 

The field lined up with Junior in sixth and man, what had he done? What kind of a bonehead was he? And he was going to get out of the car after this was over, sweaty and drained, having blown something so easy to get right, and everyone was still going to call him an Earnhardt? No, there was a better chance of the 96 ever getting a top 10. For Pete’s sake, he couldn’t even see the air! That was gonna--

The air. 

He _had_ to find a way to see the air. What did Dad say, what did Dad say?...Dad didn’t say anything; what, was he gonna spill his secret to every TBS or ESPN reporter that asked? Darnit. _Darnit._

Green flag.

As far as he could tell the air looked too wispy right in front of Stewart in fifth so he hung back, waited and squinted through the windshield rattling and chattering over Daytona’s bumps until it looked, however faintly, like the air had calmed enough for him to get a run on the 20 and he was hyperventilating; he hung hard right and so did Tony. Blocked. No momentum. 

He cut down quick under the orange car as the leaders pulled ahead, cranked his head right to see sudden flaps of air across the window; he translated them as _don’t let him side draft, stay clear of him, go low_ but he made no progress. None. He could only watch what was in front, beyond the reach of his front bumper, farther and farther. The trophy, the end of the tears, the hero status. It wouldn’t happen, just because he thought he could be Dad, Dad the angel, Dad the titan, Dad the god but he wasn’t. 

He wasn’t.

“Junior, uh, someone who called himself Rich Vogler’s Biggest Fan told me to tell you this.” About halfway down the Superstretch, his spotter had cut in. Why that? 

“He said what happened was...he spun out twice and finished 29th.”

Oh.

Dale tried to drive and process that at the same time - the gamesmanship and lofty heroism melted away. He was on default now, racing the way he always had. When he snapped out of it, he knew two things. One, Jeff had told him that story for a different reason than he thought. And two, he was in fourth now.

Up in the suites, the Budweiser suits shushed themselves at the knowledge of what might happen. Plastic cups fell from mouths, eyes that had been affixed to programs turned to the track. And Candy, from behind that foot-thick glass, could suddenly hear the crowd.

Junior sized up the cars in front. If trying to reenact all those campground folktales about Sr. hadn’t gotten him anywhere, what if he did something else?

He saw the 7 car coming, strategized the way he normally would, and swung straight up top to catch the push. When they hit the line for 5 to go he was third. 

Candy watched him fly by from high above, flashbulbs bouncing off the white of the fenders from fans and photographers bunched near the front, hats and headsets rising from seats in a reverent tsunami. Some looked to each other, whooped. Others just stood, held their breath. They felt the oil, the air, the dust. They felt all that it seemed to imply.

1 and 2, he waited, gauged Mayfield for a slip-up. They hit the Superstretch and he side-drafted the 93 of Blaney enough to swap paint, zoomed to second, no, first? First?!? Did he have enough of a run on Benson?

First.

“What a night to be up here, huh?”, said the suit next to Candy, laughing and turning ninety degrees to find an empty chair. He swiveled around to the sound of “Nobody throw out my Pepsi Twist!” and her left hand disappearing out the door in a copper blur.

Between thundering pistons, Candy barely heard from MRN that Michael Waltrip of all drivers was challenging for second and she booked it down the stairs, and the other stairs, and the other stairs to the concrete midway and the sign to the gate and the gate itself and it was absolute rapture. Already.

The pack whipped by at 2 to go, Junior leading still, holding his line, watching his mirror, not letting anyone give him crud, easing into the banking, only doing what he’d been taught and what he remembered.

Candy sprinted through the walkway up to the fence, the thick air moisture of that black Florida night and the savory scent of Unocal now soaking her. Every last fan, in every last kind of shirt and hat for stories and stories high, threw up their fists, turned to their seatmates, shared this. She ran right up to the fence. Or rather, if the sheer force of the cars hadn’t whipped her backward she would have. 

The same exact joy happened when they took the white.

At the checkered, it somehow multiplied. A mob formed around Candy; beer and soda flew every which way, cheers echoed all the way off the skyboxes. She looked to the sky, and back at Junior’s car as it rolled soft into 1.

The street meets had nothing on this.

Hopping in the Vette, drowning out the world with the engine and going straight home to dream some more was nice. But this visibly, audibly mattered. 

Junior pulled the 8 into the infield, breathing again, and the car hadn’t been in park five seconds before Waltrip joined him and so had everyone on both crews. Tearing off his helmet, Junior got a better look at the fans, all of them rallying for him. _Get a load of that,_ he thought. _I don’t have a freakin’ clue what,_ _but something changed. And then, only then, I filled the void._

“Woooooooooo!” came a creaky voice, careening into Candy from the side. It hugged her tight, a black Earnhardt cap on top of an open Bud can on top of a black Earnhardt graphic tee, and released. Marsha composed herself, took a few deep breaths. “WOOOOOOOOOO!”

“Dang right, woo!” Candy hugged back, somehow hearing her clearly. “Dang right.”

By the time Junior and Waltrip were atop the winning car’s roof, pumping their fists at the flashbulbs, Jeff had parked his damaged Chevy in the 24 stall. He also saw the relief, the exorcised ghosts running scared from Junior’s face in real time, his embrace of a friend, his embrace of everyone that loved him, everyone that loved him. And Jeff smiled. If anyone needed this now, it was--

“Heck yeah!” Someone was behind him. Two. Hot passes, black 3 shirts. Having focused on the infield for a bit, they came upon the wrecked 24 - their jaws dropped, they gasped. “Heck yeah!” It was louder this time.

The way a dog might shake off water, Jeff shook his head away and back to Junior’s mountainous celebration.

The smile hadn’t gone away. But it wasn’t half as wide as before.

“HE’S TOAST!” High Voltage boasted. “They ALL are!”

“Oh yeah, sure, we already won,” Splat countered. “I’m sure there’s no way you could be underestimating them. Let’s buy the gold yacht now.”

“Are you ever NOT a party pooper?” Voltage fired back. “STOP BEING A PERSON SO CLOSE TO ME!” Old Number 7 made a face, shifted away from her and sipped more wine.

“You know,” said a scrawny, pale man inspecting the hood of a yellow ‘69 Camaro, “I never said I agreed on the price. I mean, I know I said I wanted 70% up front and 30 after you did it and then there’s taxes and deductibles and late fees and such - my uncle Dave taught me to double check all that, you know. Yesterday we were working on a--”

The hood popped up in his face. “Ow. I--that never happened before, I promise, I replaced the hinge, like, a week after I got the--” He got it pushed down and it flew right up again.

Goldenrod pushed past his teammates. “Do you have them or not? We can talk money later.”

Rubbing his head, Goldenrod’s accomplice crouched into a drawer. “No one ever told me that before.” He pulled out a small box labeled FROM MEATZ, which contained six smaller boxes, also labeled FROM MEATZ. “Finally got these in the other day. These are as many as you need, and if you wanted them shipped to wherever you’re based I can do standard, or express, or UPS--wait, no, I feel like you wouldn’t like UPS--I’m just, y’know, trying to--trying to be flexible here. That’s how we kept the place in business. It gets so slow on Thursdays; the only ones that come in are people that are all ‘oh, does the light that says Check Engine mean I actually have to check my engine?’ It’s like, what the heck do you thi--”

“Are they compatible with Voltage’s code?” said Goldenrod, harrumphing at the end of it.

High Voltage ran a hand through her hair and wound up. “The wrong answer gets you ten punches in the face. I had to edit that stuff for years.”

“Yeah, well, the wrong answer gets you TWENTY punches in MY face!” bragged SmashChamps. “I mean, _from_ my face. I mean, from my hand to your--”

High Voltage shot him a look.

“What? I can punch harder than you.”

“It’s gonna run fine!” said Meatz. “Geez! It’ll do everything you wanted, okay? Just stick the things inside the frame. No one’ll be the wiser unless they, I dunno, cut the car in half.”

“You say that like one of the inspectors didn’t, like...threaten me with that unless I made weight in California,” grumbled Splat.

“She did NOT!” said Voltage. “I was RIGHT THERE; I would have heard it!”

Old Number 7 rubbed his ear and cleared his throat. “Ugh. Kids.”

Money changed hands; Goldenrod held tight to the box. “So anyhow - about where do these get installed?”

Meatz shuffled his foot. “As close to the transponder as you can get it.”


	6. The Thunder Rolls

The fact that not a single ESM in the room noticed the upside-down trash can inching toward them is something that confounds even Monte Dutton. _I’m so sweaty,_ thought Candy, _but at least this thing only smells like melted Jolly Ranchers and maybe also some ketchup..._

 _Wait._ She stopped herself. _Transponders. There’s one reason you mess with those._

Candy had followed half the ESMs to this tiny auto shop, a mile or so out from Red Dust Raceway Park, thinking they’d discuss race strategy. Instead, she had chills now. _I knew they played a little rough at the track days,_ she thought, _but I never thought this kind of stuff was Tuesday for them!_

She saw the back door, propped open. She could inch back toward it and no one would know, she thought. Slip out, stop hearing all this, get back to safety.

“Now that all the pieces of Project Blueshell are set,” said Goldenrod, “none of you can wait to let him know. Especially about his place in it.” He pulled a notecard from his pocket. “Before the race, one of you needs to facilitate the message. For us to finally have what’s ours - to tear it all down - we need him personally demoralized, so make sure this gets followed exactly.”

Candy’s chills were now so intense she expected the trash can to freeze over. _Personally demoralized? Tear it all down?_ She’d raced them before, but it wasn’t like she’d ever wanted to talk to anyone at the track - racing was a temporary diversion back then. _Who the heck are these people?_ She was leaving right now. She backed up, and backed up, and backed up and there was a photo on the floor under her. 

Martinsville.

A daughter, her mother. Hot dogs, sunscreen, a bag full of diecasts. Stewart and Irwin door-banging on the frontstretch.

All at once, Daytona was in Candy’s brain. The colors, the history on the walls, the burnt rubber wafting in the air, the rejoicing of the whole grandstand and infield. All this wonder that now, apparently, was in danger...and she had no idea what that danger was. Yet.

She gulped and inched forward again.

“I can do it!” boomed SmashChamps. “And if he doesn’t comply, I’ll do a kick!” He looked up and stammered. “But, like, not a girly dancey one, a manly violent one! Into one or more of his body parts!”

“Mr. O.N.E.... _kept telling me_ it had to be you,” said Goldenrod. “I’m not sure. It needs to be someone they won’t expect, someone not so...forward.” 

He brushed a bit of dust off his shoulder and sauntered to the front door. His teammates followed quick. “Speaking of O.N.E….God, I told him it was rash, but you know him...don’t get too close to him on the start. He figured since three of the best True Racers drew spots right near him, he would try and take them all out in one move.” They were all gone.

Suddenly alone, Meatz threw up his hands. “Doesn’t anybody say thanks anymore?” The hood of the Camaro hit him again.

It was still pitch-dark out when a lonely traffic light in the middle of the valley, orangey yellow paint peeling off its sides, finally had something to cast a shadow on. Its green glow bounced nicely off the black lacquer finish and scarlet accents of the Muscle Tone, but only for half an instant. Here in the middle of nowhere and the middle of the night, someone named Dani had pushed it to about 140. Two more had come here with it - a white Shelby Cobra with a painted jet plane streaking blue and black down the side doors, and a pristine silver Chrysler Thunderbolt.  
  
Of course, in the same moment, Brandon and Mr. O.N.E. and SmashChamps were at 145. Well, actually, not Brandon. He was in last again.

“Been a little while since I had me one of these,” said Mr. O.N.E, grinning and making a point to drift onto the shoulder out of a corner, nearly dinging the Armco. He scanned his mirror for headlights in the distance, then his windshield. Nothing. For just a moment, his smile faded.

“Get ready to lose, _ladies!_ ” SmashChamps boasted. "I'm so getting to the Getty station first!" SmashChamps savored his lead, causing at least one bearded Walkman listener to leap back from a crosswalk and barely slip past with his life. He led the pack past something hidden in the shadow of a billboard - yep, you've got it - a black and white Camaro with a light bar.

“I’ve got...holy mackerel,” said the cop inside, fumbling for the radio but never hitting the button, “I’ve got a whole bunch of runners--” and that was all she got through before every display she could see went dark, every speaker shut off. Amid a flash of green in her windshield, she got to the button. Nothing. “Oh, fantastic.”

“Besides,” said Mr. O.N.E., “we’ve got help.”

High Voltage buzzed in behind the Muscle Tone, and Splat and Goldenrod and Old Number 7 did too.

“Some people are REALLY lucky this thing couldn’t get to a track without being seen,” she screeched, flinging a heavy, glued-together EMP generator into her passenger seat. “One of these days I’ll figure out how to make a smaller one. One of these days.”

Further and further down the road, closer to the lights, more of the ESMs flew by their challengers at every turn. Splat dinged the Thunderbolt a bit as he went by, leaving a small green scratch in the truck’s orange paint. Goldenrod led Mr. O.N.E. by the time they headed onto a lengthy straight, before a small bundle of shops and motels.

Goldenrod glanced in his mirror. “I’m close. I mean, we’re close.”

“You don’t have to play coy,” said Mr. O.N.E, getting a nice jump and pulling towards the yellow car’s left door. “Everyone wants to win.”

“I--I’m only saying, we’re close,” uttered Goldenrod, hesitant. “...And then we can get back into hiding before we run out of gas. This is fun enough, but--”

Something far in front stopped him, something on the other side of the road.

Headlights.

Four pairs.

Mr. O.N.E. took a hand off the wheel to rub his eyes but hallelujah, there were _four pairs--_

“Do _not_ do it.” Goldenrod’s voice, believe it or not, changed tone. “Can we just--”

“Look at ‘em.” Mr. O.N.E. scoffed; his left fist constricted. “Staying in the lines, obeying all the crossing guards in their little Sables and Beetles.”

“Yeah, they’re dumb. We’ve been over this. But stay on ta--”

“They think they’re so _perfect_ , Goldy,” he snarled. “They think going five over the speed limit makes you evil, huh?”

“If you do it, I will -- wait, _Goldy?!?_ ”

“They wouldn’t dare feel any horsepower? Any risks?” Cackling, he cranked it left. “THEY HAVEN’T SEEN EVIL YET!”

Inside the Muscle Tone, Dani’s face turned blue. 

A blue lumber truck was the first to come head-on at about fifty miles an hour toward the Lumina that was at about 140 with the gas mashed through the floor; they were fifty feet apart, thirty, ten and Mr. O.N.E. flicked right just enough to, by the length of a Coke bottle or two, miss. In his mirror, he saw the brake lights flash wild, the steering column go this way and that, the driver’s confusion and fear become visible things for his ego to drink in, and he cackled again.

The small GMC motorhome was next in line, lights on, curtains rustling with something, and Mr. O.N.E. came close enough to see the eyes of the couple in front dilate, close enough for there to be a spark, before swerving again. “Look at ‘em squirm! What a jackpot!”

“You said it, boss!” whooped SmashChamps, also weaving on the opposite side, and High Voltage and Old Number 7 joined in too.

A Mercedes and an old Mustang were only a couple of lengths apart when the 1 whizzed by them and one smashed into the other, the tangled mess of metal drifting onto the shoulder, digging into the dirt and the sand. Their occupants got out in time to see Splat mash the gas and catch up to Goldenrod’s taillights. 

Mr. O.N.E. chopped back to the proper side of the road. The GT90 and the Lumina were neck and neck when the Getty sign came into view; it was 2000 feet to the crosswalk, 1500, 1000. Brakes. Smoke. Taillight after taillight whipped in front of the Lumina’s windshield, and all the while Mr. O.N.E. rapped his fingers. 

Until Dani’s rear fender came into view and he cut right. _Clang!_

The black car whipped sideways, gripless. Dani felt a tire pop, and another. Both her feet smacked the brake, her head knocked and rattled, she saw the outer wall of a 7 Eleven swallow up the right side window.

After a few tries she shoved the door open, and its window cracked in a few more places. She climbed from the wreckage unscathed, found her footing as joints gave out on the front and the nosepiece fell off to expose the massive bruised radiator. She had to step around raw, sharp chunks of concrete and glass and metal. Bending down toward her crumpled doors, her shredded Michelins, her bent-up Brembos that had cost a thousand on their own, she couldn’t keep her lip from quivering. 

Until the engines rumbling behind her shut off. The ESMs had parked, and Mr. O.N.E. leaned against the Lumina, arms crossed. 

“You jerk!” Dani marched to him. “That was the stupidest thing I have ever—”

“You hate it, don’t you?” Mr. O.N.E. kept his voice low. 

“No, you think?!? This was my baby, I’ve had it for a—”

“Waiting until the streets are almost empty to do what you love? Hiding from the cops, shaking? Crawling into dark alleys to set it up?”

“...What does that have to do with anything?!?”

Mr. O.N.E. drew in a breath and settled back into the driver’s seat, window open. “Twenty-four hours from now, you’re gonna wish you could hug me.”

And the ESMs sped off.

All the while, Candy had been traveling at right above the speed limit. But when she eventually came to the silent wreckage, the shards, the subtle scrapes of metal-flake sapphire paint, she took the image of it all the way back to Red Dust Raceway Park.

Most of the facility was a simple public road when it wasn’t a race day. Its garages were about as flimsy as the ones in California.

“So here’s what we do: I’ll tell the inspection team to double-check our transponders,” said Jeff. “Everyone else, stay right by your car and don’t blink until we get called to the track.”

“Jeff wanted to go at first, but I told him to get enough sleep for the race,” said Candy. “I stayed until they left. It was only right.”

“So Mr. O.N.E. was gonna wreck half of us on the first lap _and_ screw with our scoring,” said Kyle, the implications of this hitting him slowly, “and we wouldn’t have had a dang clue…” He cleared his throat, speaking with humbled relief. “Wow. Glad you two helped catch that.”

The True Racers all nodded.

Junior tried to stop fidgeting. “Yeah, thanks, Candy. Thanks, Jeff. Goldenrod’s gonna have a lot to answer for when I catch him trying to mess with the 8...piece of garbage.”

“I don’t think he’ll do it,” Bill reassured him. “They don’t know we know.”

“If they don’t know we know,” said Kyle, “why wouldn’t they come try it?” 

Terry tapped his foot a few times, took a small bite out of his cereal bar and felt something unusual. “Darn Apple Jacks getting stuck in my teeth…”

“I always wanted to be a guard!” said Jeremy, rushing up to the roof of the 12 car. “Look at me! I’m like a big brave bald eagle, protecting my nest, ready to strike at any threat except the nest is a car and I can’t fly and I don’t have anything to strike with but that’s okay! I’ll wing it!”

“Get down, Jeremy,” said Terry. “Don’t you remember Pocono last year?...and do you have any floss?”

Jeremy got down. Everyone else went off to their garage stalls, leaving Jeff and Candy to admire the race-day sunrise in her fuel truck. It lit up more of the mid-July sky in red than either of them expected, and they could see the fiery light glint off Jeff’s Monte Carlo. The canyons and towering rock formations, too, were coming into light off in the distance, the gritty browns and reds and tans of them.

“Wow, I take it back,” said Candy. “That hot fresh bun cha was the _second_ best part of the trip.”

Jeff didn’t respond. 

Candy turned to him, waiting, but his eyes were turned to his on-edge teammates back at the garages. “You okay?”

“I knew these people were jerks before they even said their name, but I didn’t think they’d drag us into a plan...this big. This destructive.”

Candy came closer. In her head, she started to replay those races she’d had with the Evil Street Machines, searched for clues she might have missed. “That wasn’t your fault.”

Jeff didn’t look at her. “I’d feel better if they’d said what the plan was. Or why it all hinges on them telling me the details. Wouldn’t a bad guy with any common sense want to _not_ do that?” He rubbed his head. “And what did they mean, my place in it?”

Candy looked back to the sky. “I’m just wondering what the heck they called it Project Blueshell for.”

Jeff shrugged. “Maybe they want to make the third race Mario Kart. That’d make me a lot less worried.” For the first time in a few minutes, he smiled.

The asphalt was still empty.

“Do you think Bill was right?” Candy asked. “Did they figure out we’re on to them?...or is that what they want us to think?...or is _that_ what they want us to think?”

“It hasn’t been long,” said Jeff, a response he could no longer resort to two hours later when the asphalt was still empty.

“Okay, I spy something red, and rectangular, and there’s more than one of it,” Candy chattered.

“You used the Kool-Aid billboards, like, ten rounds ago,” said Jeff. “Besides, they’re barely red anymore.”

“Oh, what the heck? Let’s call it a draw.” She fired up a portable television, thumbed through, and stopped at the sight of something. “Hey, look. You’re on TV.”

Jeff peered over her shoulder and recognized his old quarter midget.

The footage was seven years younger than he was. The little car cut tight into one end of the little track, packed onto the gas as soon as it could, flew into the next turn, rotated, rotated, rocketed out again. And again, and again. _Rio Linda,_ Jeff thought. A father bent down and surveyed the car, his helmet-hair son peeking in farther than he was. They talked, pointed to certain parts of the track, marked ideas down. And the little boy jumped right back into the cockpit. Head bouncing. Smile glowing. Tongue poking out a little.

The documentary was somewhere different now, a dirt track in Ohio with Armco all the way around and a sprint car buzzing through its third turn, trails of clay pouring from the rear tires. A fourteen-year-old in a blue cap, the shortest one here in a sea of gray mustaches and fishing-hole storytellers, was jittery and nervous and jubilant. He spoke of experience, and newness, and looking up to the old guard, and he said “you know” way too many times. Jeff chuckled and covered his eyes at that one. Back to the track, and that same fourteen-year-old snagged the win, fist pumping out of the roll cage.

Jeff was glued to this by now.

Two to go in asphalt midgets at IRP; a white one cut top-to-bottom to nose in under a red one for second. An inch from each other already, they rode over the bumps, jerking one way and another and another and their wheels touched. A puff of smoke. A spark. The white car’s right wheels were up over the red helmet and it was still straight, still pointed unwaveringly forward as it tilted 45 degrees, the gas still mashed to the floor. It came down in second, and it came to the line in second.

Candy couldn’t help but clap and pump her own fist. Jeff just smiled.

Candy looked back, reverent, at the driver she’d just seen perform all those impossibilities. “What’s your favorite part?”

Jeff didn’t hesitate. “Winning.” He turned to her. “When you’re out of the car and you know you were able to move past everyone and everything that came between you and what you wanted...nothing can replace what that feels like.”

“What does it feel like?”

“You’ve won races. You know it as much as me.”

Candy, going over all the logos on his suit again and scanning the empty stands, wasn’t quick to agree and there was silence for a few seconds. “Man, how long’s it been? I could use some air.” She stepped out to stretch. 

And at a boarded-up concession stand past the garages, Splat was dragging his feet. 

“Oh, _shoot._ ” Jeff whipped around to face Candy. “Stay with my car.” He sprinted to the stand, his feet kicking up dust as he stopped. Before speaking, he took a breath to stay calm. “Why are you here?”

Splat took several moments to react. “Oh, it’s you. Bosses said they wanted me to tell you something.”

Jeff’s heart jumped. _Don’t let him do it. Runrunrunrunrunrun--_

“...dangit. What the heck was I supposed to--” Splat looked around aimless, touched his pocket. “Eh, it was probably stupid anyway.”

And he walked away from the garages, arms down, mouth shut.

Jeff stood there, bewildered. _How does a guy like that have such a well groomed mustache?_

Back at the garages, the True Racers gathered. “I already asked everyone else,” Junior told Jeff. “No one came to us. Our transponders are fine.”

And no one came after, until the ESMs formally arrived at around 4.

By the time the engines were fired, the sky, in some places, had begun to turn red again. The pace lap around the 2-miler was pretty bumpy; they rolled at a perfect 60 through turn 1 the right-hand sweeper, 2 the medium 180, straight for a while then right for the esses 3, 4, 5, straight, a long left-right for 6 and 7, straight and a final sweeper that local legend said this track’s developer had rallied for after getting off a flight from Monza. It was Lester on the pole with Brandon to his left, then Junior, Mr. O.N.E., Ward and Gordon.

“Hey 94,” Brandon spat, “get ready for a Big Mac! And by a Big Mac I mean you losing the race! Hahahahaha! Lettuce and cheese? More like let us...beat you...please!” Brandon nearly fainted at the wheel from laughter.

“I don’t get it,” said Bill. “Seriously, what was he going for? It’s not clicking.”

Junior came over the radio next. “Do you even know his name, Brandon?”

Silence for a few seconds. “Jeff...Burton...Junior?”

Junior cranked his dial to Bill. “You gonna take that from him? I’ll kick his butt. I bet he’s gonna try to--”

“I think he’s serious,” said the newcomer with a small laugh that was half truly happy and half resigned. “Besides, I’m used to it.”

The pace car pulled in; the crowd rose as one. Bunching up for the start were the first row, the second, the third, green flag and they roared up to 70 80 90 100 as Mr. O.N.E. swung hard left. Junior, Ward and Jeff remembered what Candy had told them about the ESMs’ secret meeting - they let off the gas and let him swing three lanes back to the right as fast as a wrecking ball, touching only the sticky summer air.

The back half of the field was a madhouse of tire smoke after that stack-up but Bill got away clean with the lead, oh gosh, the _lead,_ in a _Cup car!_ His hand jittered a little. There was nothing but empty track in front of him and a bright grin couldn’t help but form under the padding of his helmet. He poured into 1 first.

Brandon went wide and Mr. O.N.E. slipped through. _Fine,_ he thought, ears steaming, _if I can’t send them around I’ll send you,_ but the red car was smaller in his windshield. 

Glancing at his spotless hood, Junior let out a breath for the first time in several moments. “Thank you, Candy.” And he looked to Jeff’s car in his mirror, nerves starting to calm.

Lap 8 of 50. Splat had gotten around Jeff for fourth, and only now was the 24 beginning to close back in on the orange pickup. 

Jeff turned his radio dial to the fuel truck’s frequency. “What was this guy like when you ran into him?” 

Candy was parked on a hill overlooking the final turn, a red headset around her ears, her portable TV tuned to the NBC telecast. “He was good at outbraking you - did the best in flat corners. Didn’t stay mad at you long either.”

“No kidding. Hey, what if I gave him a little bump and run into 2? Just enough to open the inside up?”

“Nah, he probably sees that coming already. I tried it once. He beat me to the brakes; killed my momentum. Like it was nothing.”

“Wow. Since when does an Evil Street Machine know that much about short track tactics?”

“...He’s coming into this last turn a little too hot. See it?”

“Sure do. If I make a move now, could I make it work?”

“I’d say wait for him to use his stuff up a little more; try it in a couple laps.”

On lap 10, Jeff waited for the truck to roll too fast into 8, for its tires to grip the pavement not quite as well as before. When it drifted left, he played with the throttle - got alongside and past without a scratch. “Nice call.”

And he thought about winning. About the midway in California and the idea that winning, winning for the whole sport, would put all those effigies into the trash. After California, could that still happen?

Only if he did it right.

The end of Lap 14. For a few circuits Ward Burton had been stalking Get Gone Goldenrod for sixth, but the 22 fell back a bit when Candy watched the battle go by. “You had such a run on the 15 but he shot out ahead of you. Everything okay?”

“Trying to keep the fenders on it,” he mumbled. “If I make a run in the wrong spot, that Go Away Green guy’s gonna crash me. I mean, Yellow. Or whatever it is. Betcha if there was a deer on the track he’d send me into it for slight. I mean, spite.”

“Ward, he’s not like most of these other guys.”

“You don’t think a guy who wanted to rig our scoring stuff would play dirty?”

“He never wrecked both our cars just ‘cause I wanted to get around him. O.N.E. and SmashChamps and Voltage, yeah. But he always hated when they did that.”

“Dang, that’s good news!” He licked his chops and gave Goldenrod a shot up the track into 2. 

On lap 20 Old Number 7 got impatient with Kyle Petty - for 10th, at that. He’d been using up all the space to the left, all the space to the right, and he’d been doing that even before he got close. But he got impatient a lot, so he nicked the 44’s rear bumper. It loosened up, swerved one way and the other, smoke spreading from the rear tires. _How easy was that?,_ Old Number 7 would have thought. _Every one of these people are supposed to be the best in the world but when a REAL driver gets within an inch they don’t know what to do, hmph,_ he would have thought, except that he only got through the word _easy_ before the 44 swerved into him and both their cars scraped along the Armco, stopping in front of a rock formation in the backdrop. NBC had a great time with that shot.

When Brandon came upon the stopped cars, he braked at the scene and turned to Kyle’s. “Hey Kyle! Hot Wheels? More like Hot...” Not finding any words, he looked over the wrecked cars and scratched his helmet. “...Way way way bad at driving! Hahahahahahaha--” He coughed a couple of times. “Hahahahaha--”

Flooring it, Kyle backed into the side of the Corvette.

When he brought the Grand Prix into the pits, he unhooked the net and climbed out the window to assess the damage as his crew sat right behind the war wagon with parts. In these races, the driver was the only person allowed over the wall.

Bill had already upshifted after the esses when Mr. O.N.E. got a run and slapped the side of the 94, sending it sliding against the 1’s left front. They separated; Bill's left wheels drifted off track and into the red dust, kicking some of it up like a smokescreen, before he corrected.

His bright eyes drooping as Mr. O.N.E. pulled away, Bill switched his radio dial to Jeff. “Getting really vivid flashbacks to the schoolyard over here. I’m not about to junk my whole car or anything, but I can’t take that lying down.”

“You don’t have to, but wait a while,” said Jeff. “Driving angry is only gonna make him drive angrier; I don’t want us tearing stuff up this early. Or kicking any more of that dirt up near our windshields.”

Candy followed up. “I’m with him, Bill. One time I just looked at him before I got in the car, and, well, there’s still some grass I never got to pick out of the Corvette’s fender.”

“Nothing to feel bad about, Bill,” said Ward. “You led, what, 21 laps?”

“But I wanted to lead 22,” said Bill.

“So if we’re laying back early,” Junior cut in, curious, “what about the end of this thing, huh?”

Jeff thought, and his mind rushed back to L.A. The move he’d made at the end, the bump, the spin, the boos...and Mr. O.N.E. was leading by about half a second now. And he remembered the end of the Kmart 400 - his preoccupation didn’t help him go faster out of the last corner that day, and it wasn’t helping anyone now.

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

Not much about the running order changed by the halfway break, and when the green flew again the sun was taking its sweet time to set; the sky was all scarlet. Junior packed it into 1 like Jeff and Candy suggested, except he missed their mark and the entry killed his exit; he had to back out and watch the 1 car speed away again. 

“If you’re wondering about the stickers,” said Mr. O.N.E., “I drive better when I remember what I’m fighting. When I’m…” He took in a serious, unsettled breath, as though in the middle of a ritual. “...surrounded by it.”

Junior rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Kubrick.” He tried into the esses a few laps later but the blue car slammed his right side. 

Careening into the heavy dust went the 8 car, almost gripless; he was three feet from the wall, two, one but he muscled the Monte Carlo back straight. Splat was past him, Ward was, Goldenrod was. Seventh place.

Jeff came over the radio. “Hey, Junior--”

“I know!” Junior cut in. “I screwed up, I know, I know. I get it; I should have--”

“I wasn’t gonna say that. It’s okay.”

“What?” The tension in Dale’s body unraveled all at once. “You mean you don’t think--”

“No, you’re not a failure. There’s a lot of race left, we’ll figure it out.” 

“How’d you know I--” Junior stopped himself, a new relief washing over him. “10-4. Go get ‘em.” Focusing on the track again, he feathered the gas just when the 8 car struck a bump. 

His hand jolted, slamming the radio dial out of place. Garbled junk came through for a second, then something clearer. Behind him, High Voltage was throwing blocks on SmashChamps.

“Would you let me by if I took you to the hair salon?” SmashChamps pleaded. “Y’know, undercover, of course--”

“I do my own hair, DUMMY. And I like it.”

“What if I took you to the hair salon undercover _and_ bought all the wire you need for a year?”

“SHUT UP. NO.”

Silence from the 47 radio for a second. “Well then, ma’am, maybe I’ll tell the boss how you got on the team in the first place. How you--” He continued as the radio distorted and static’d a bit. Junior could still hear what he was saying.

High Voltage somehow spit nails and whispered at the same time. “You tell anyone HALF a word about all that, I’ll hotwire your car, take it right to Super Auto World and paint it PINK.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“With baby blue flowers.”

And Junior’s radio cut off.

Lap 47 of 50. Bill made a run at Mr. O.N.E. into 2 but he slipped up, smoked the tires, drifted right, right, right...barely stayed on track. Out of the corner, he slotted in quick behind Burton to secure fifth. 

They hit the line for 3 to go and Jeff was a length or three behind the 1 car. “True Racers, it’s time to go.”

Ward would have loved to, but Splat was making his truck three lanes wide to hold onto third. “I don’t get this guy,” he said. “I’m not even gaining on him.”

Jeff switched his dial to Candy. “There’s a couple of turns I think I can make a move on the 1. Do you like one more than the others?”

“Well, he’d rather spin you out in a fast corner than a slow one.”

Jeff let out a small, dry laugh that turned into a groan. “Good to know.”

Candy checked her TV again. “Hey, wow, you’re booking it compared to the 44!”

“You’re hilarious,” said Jeff in monotone as he tried to take advantage of a run into 7. No dice; Mr. O.N.E. pulled away again.

“I mean it!...well, now I do. You’re getting pretty close to those three lapped cars that wrecked earlier. Wouldn’t be surprised if you had to deal with them all before this is over.”

“Any suggestions on how?”

“Well, there is something I tried a few years ago…”

After the conversation, Jeff smiled and turned his dial to Kyle Petty.

Ward tried to cut in on Splat into 8. He got half a car underneath, pedaled, washed up near the side of the truck. Splat pulled ahead on exit, and just as Jeff swung left to get air into the grille down the frontstretch, he gained on the 24.

“Excellent,” said O.N.E. “Help me out here.”

The truck’s front bumper filled more and more of Jeff’s mirror - Jeff braced as it slammed him square in the rear, _BAM!_ It wasn’t done. Back up to the bumper - _BAM!_

Breathing heavy, Jeff glanced to his right.

His fender was up to the 1 car. And the blue Grand Prix was closer in the windshield; they’d be right on him by the time they got to 1. 

“True Racers,” said Jeff, “nobody tell them what bump drafting is!”

Splat slammed into Jeff again, drawing him even with the 1 as they rattled over the bumps of the frontstretch. Jeff radioed in again - “Kyle, stay right.”

If anyone in the grandstands was still sitting before now, they weren’t anymore.

Jeff held tight against the left door of the 44 car as they set up for entry into 1 with 2 to go. Petty let off more than usual in front of Mr. O.N.E., played pick, hovering just ahead of that heavily used blue bumper as the four vehicles bunched up, staying an inch ahead, an inch…

Jeff went by. 

“Yes!” He pumped his fist. “Man, you guys are awesome! Thank you!”

Kyle nodded and grinned as the 24 pulled away.

To Mr. O.N.E., the red of Jeff’s rear bumper might as well have been a muleta. “Splat!” He punched his dashboard. “You idiot!” He swerved left to get by Kyle, and, well, Splat may have been an idiot but Kyle had screwed him on purpose.

_You. YOU._

He turned right on the 44’s left rear and it careened across the track. He meant for it to be a one-car spin, but had forgotten that Splat had nowhere to go.

_Crunch._

Now at the front, Jeff turned the dial to Mr. O.N.E. and thought about boasting. But, he thought after, he had to focus on finishing the race, and Junior suddenly boasted for him. “Hey, Mister T.W.O.! Messing with our transponders isn’t gonna help when we beat you by a whole second!”

“You know,” Mr. O.N.E. seethed, “I knew it was hard for you to listen, but do you not know what SmashChamps told Jeff before the race?”

Rolling into 7 at about 130, Jeff cocked an eyebrow. “I have no idea what you mean. I barely--”

“It wasn’t _your_ transponders, idiots!”, O.N.E. continued without a care. “It was _ours!_ ”

White noise.

“Your transponders...were what? What’d you do to your transponders?” White noise. “Speak up!”

“Did SmashChamps not tell you?”

“He hasn’t spoken to me all day!”

“...I will destroy you. And then some other people.”

Brandon swerved in front of Gordon. Suddenly O.N.E. was faster into 1 and got to Jeff’s bumper. _Screech._ Jeff gathered it up, got past the pink Corvette, but the 1 car led him at the white. 

“What’ll it be this time, Wonder Boy? O.N.E. nailed the entry to 1, sailed along. “Gonna dump me again? Gonna see yourself doing it on the TV replay again?”

Jeff packed it hard into 2, cut down so much he was almost in the dirt, got under the blue car and _yes, finally,_ he thought, _I can get by him clean and nothing he’s talking about will even matter_ but O.N.E. beat him back to the gas. 

Jeff’s heart raced again. “You spun _yourself_ in California. Do you think all these fans are stupid?”

“No!” A pause. “I mean, yes. But you know almost all of them would rather die than side with you on anything!”

They whizzed through the esses, streaks of color; Gordon stayed with Mr. O.N.E. but the blue car blocked, put its boxy bumper inches from Gordon’s nose at every turn, inches from smoky calamity at 140 miles an hour.

The crowd rose further, screaming.

Jeff checked his mirror, then further out the windshield. Old Number 7 was next up to lap. Out of 5, O.N.E. only gained ground.

“No one’s passed me clean the whole evening,” he bragged. “You already know what the deal is. If you want to win this...you’re gonna have to be the bad guy.”

 _Slap me with a wrench, he’s right_ , Jeff thought. A straight-up bump and run would only lead to Mr. O.N.E. framing him again, he knew that. But without getting physical, he’d lose. Whatever the ESMs were planning, whatever searing grudges they held against this sport, would come to pass and the team would lose. And so would the whole of stock car racing. So would all his friends, all his family, all the days and months and years they had all put in to be here and to be amongst their childhood dreams. It was all going to lose to some green nobody, as far as the entire country was concerned.

And what about Hoku?

Oh man, Hoku was going to get _torn apart_ at first-grade recess…

“Guys...if something happens in this last turn, please don’t freak out.”

Jeff checked his mirror again, hit the throttle for as much time as he could in 6 without throwing himself off track. He was somehow gaining on the 1, closer, closer, slowly, slightly, on the last short straight before the right turn for home and he dove in. 

The 24 drew even for one second.

Two.

Mr. O.N.E. started to inch ahead again, made the short beginnings of a power move out of the corner and to certain victory but Jeff drifted left on him before he could advance, clanged the Monte Carlo into the side of the Lumina and held it there for dear life. No spins this time. They went up, up, up, near the barrier that was past the runoff but not against it, their steering columns brawling, the dust and smoke pluming against the red sky and across the track as though mines had gone off in front of their windshields. 

The crowd turned right and waited. And waited.

No one dared breathe.

...

The 1 emerged before the 24.

“I knew it!”, Mr. O.N.E. shouted. “Everything I’ve waited for is mine! And all because you can’t beat me! _YOU CAN’T BEAT ME!!!”_ He floored it.

In his mirror he saw Jeff limp out of the cloud, left sheet metal beaten to a pulp with nothing to show for it, left tires shredded, and looked back out his dusty windshield at a speck of pink. Well, he wasn’t surprised that he’d already caught up to Brandon again, but…

Wait, that wasn’t pink.

It was red.

“I didn’t have to,” said Jeff. “I just had to distract you.”

The dust cleared and Mr. O.N.E’s mouth went agape.

Allen Bestwick could barely get the words out in the booth. “The McDonald’s Ford gets through it! Bill Lester is going to win at Red Dust for the True Racers...and send _NASCAR vs. the Evil Street Machines_ into sudden death!”

Up in the truck, Candy was bouncing up and down with glee.

“Yeeeeaaaaahhhh!” Bill thwacked his fist out the window to a roaring crowd. He took a slow victory lap, soaking in what he’d done, and when he got back to the line no one in the first ten rows could see the 94 through the burnout smoke.

Jeff snuck through the reporters and flashbulbs and Gatorade in the winner’s circle hoping to get to Bill quick. “You were awesome, man!”

A pit reporter had been at the scene for a while. “...and here’s team leader Jeff Gordon coming in to celebrate...Bill, did you feel like you all had better chemistry this time?”

“I tell you what, this win, I gotta hand it to two amazing--” Bill tripped over those last words. The ESMs couldn’t know what Candy really did. “--halves of this one single person’s brain. Just one. This guy right here. I don’t know how we ever doubted him; he was coming up with strategy, saying the right thing at the right moment, and there was even this one time with this kid from the fan club, I mean, wow, they were singing the CatDog theme song so loud that the Wendy’s reps came over and yelled at him to--”

“Okay, well…” Jeff gave a bashful scoff. “I’m just another link in the chain. You all did what you needed to do out there. That was just as important.”

The reporter turned to Jeff. “Your team’s new faith paying off for sure tonight, now talk about that finish. There was such controversy in that final corner in Los Angeles, now you and Mr. O.N.E. battle it out again. Take us through it.”

Jeff, a bit of a guilty sag in his eyes now that the camera was tight on him instead, looked to his teammate. But it wasn’t going to pan back without an answer. “You know, Liz...I knew whatever move I made, the guy was gonna get out of his car and act like I wanted to turn him sideways. He told me himself.”

Boos already. And some cheers, but not a lot.

“...I didn’t do anything we haven’t been doing in stock cars since, well, the beginning.”

“Is there anything you would do differently?”

Jeff paused - froze. He heard the boos and he heard the small cheers. He saw the confetti, the hat dance, the rejoicing crews, and he saw the signs with crossed-out 24s. One foot in what was right, one in what was wrong.

He pressed his lips together, shook his head no, and stepped back.

An inspector shut off a monitor, defeated. “I don’t know what to tell you, Dale. All our scoring data lines up perfectly with the video.”

Junior palmed his head a couple times and grunted. “Then what the heck are they trying to do?...We gotta go to their cars. We gotta go to their cars with--with a laser cutter or something, and--”

From above, he saw the ESMs peel off onto the roads. Into the dark.

That was just great.

“Some of you are lucky you’re so fast, I swear to God.” Mr. O.N.E. was swerving from shoulder to shoulder on this dim-lit two-lane road, daring anyone who saw to call him a moron. But there was no one who saw. “I can think of three people today that screwed up something critical.”

Get Gone Goldenrod said nothing.

“The rest of you did fine,” Mr. O.N.E. continued. “Except Brandon. Screw Brandon. He’s only here because _somebody_ keeps telling me his jokes are funny.”

“Oh, come on,” chuckled High Voltage. “Hot Wheels? Hot Way-way-bad-at-driving? The joke is they both start with W, I mean, come on, it's a--"

Goldenrod interrupted. “Mr. O.N.E., I know tonight didn’t go well, but if you would clear your head, we could all make a U-turn and _tell Jeff what Blueshell is--_ ”

“Oh, wow. Now that I think of that, _absolutely not._ ” Mr. O.N.E. rolled his eyes. “They think they have a chance? Let them celebrate. It’ll only hurt more when they learn the truth...when he does.”

Candy was supposed to be inspecting the fuel truck for the run back home, but the throng of happy fans exiting the track, all their whoops and jovial conversation echoing against the walls and fences and rocks, kept turning her away from it. Not that she minded.

“I wanted to thank you,” said someone behind her - Bill. “For your advice. Really helped me out a couple times - I can’t _wait_ to get back out there; the trucks aren’t going to Nashville for another month and I don’t know how I’m gonna sleep. Seriously, my Ambien was--” He cut himself off. “Anyway. Thank you.”

“No problem. You ever worked a customer service line? This was nothing!” She laughed and leaned on the truck’s door.

“What’d you say you drove before? Corvette? Things of beauty, aren’t they?” He looked up and took in a content breath. “To think I could have still been sitting in a beige office right now.”

Candy stopped leaning. “You could have?”

“I did diagnostics for HP.” He shrugged. “Don’t remember a minute of it. Every week I was waiting ‘til Friday; waiting to get paid and get on the track. One day I told myself I’d waited long enough.”

Candy took that in, and before she could even open her mouth a couple of young fans spotted Bill, one about fourteen, the other maybe half that.

“Dude! You were awesome!”

“Yeah, dude, how’d you see through that smoke, dude?”

“Dude, don’t use so many ‘dude’s. You gotta sprinkle them in lightly if you’re gonna get a prom date someday--”

“There was that one part, when you went under the guy, but then the guy was like--he, like, passed you but then you passed him, and--”

“Holy mackerel, wait ‘til Aunt Dianne hears about this, huh? I think I’m gonna be talking about it the rest of my life...Can you sign our book?”

Bill happily did, and they disappeared back into the crowd. Even at the end of the spectacle, everyone was still satisfied.

“Be proud of yourself,” said Candy. “You all should. You did that.”

Bill looked to her and smiled. “So did you.”

Candy didn’t remember to check the truck until much, much later.

Between helping his team pack up tires and tools and supplies, Jeff had a small moment to check his voicemail.

“Hello, this is Jodi with BAR-Honda - excellent race today. I know you and Craig Pollock spoke a while ago about possibly doing a test with the Formula 1 outfit...our door is still open; I was wondering where you--”

Jeff hung up and brought in another rack of tires. Burnt Goodyear rubber had never smelled better.


	7. The Tire Test

The morning after the barnburner in Idaho, Jayski.com put a new headline up. Someone from Goodyear had let slip to a friend of the site, apparently, that they were looking at harder tires for ‘02. Something about teams using less of them per race, cost cutting, shutting up the complainers. When the time arrived for a two-day test of the new compound, a week and change later, the 24 hauler was one of the first ones through the tunnel in Atlanta and they’d packed a _lot_ of water bottles.

“Any time you can roll in for a pit stop and the tires don’t have blisters, that can only be a good thing. Just have to adjust to having a bit less grip, that’s the one thing.” Jeff kept composure amid the bobbing wave of microphones and recorders below his neck.

“Richmond Times Dispatch is saying Pepsi’s jumping ship to the 9 car next year,” a reporter butted in, “any thoughts?”

“Pepsi forgot to tell me about it.” said Jeff. “I don’t know where some people get this stuff. Not you. But some people.”

“Any updates about the last race with the Evil Street Machines?”

“Nothing to report.” Jeff shrugged. “They went dark on me after Red Dust.”

Some time later, his primer-spotted test car rolled onto pit road after another run, and the number 12 Taurus followed closely, going just a bit over pit road speed and parking quick in an inconspicuous stall. Their engines shook the ground as the 12 car’s net came down and the driver removed her helmet. “WOO! OH MY GOSH, I MISSED THAT!” Candy turned to Jeremy, who had just come out from his hiding spot behind a vacant old war wagon. Up against the harness, her heart was rattling in rhythm with the 700 horses. “DON’T TELL PETER, OH MY GOSH!”

Jeremy tapped a finger to his mouth, snickering. “176.458! You would have been 22nd quick in practice last spring; not bad for a first-timer!”

“FIRST-TIMER? WHAT? NO, I DID THIS, LIKE, 30 TIMES ALREADY! CAN I GO OUT AGAI--WOW! OH MY GO--WOW!” She held the steering wheel close, like an old friend.

Jeff came out from his stopped car, grin beaming. “See what I mean about letting off a little sooner into 1? Your time went down a tenth or so. Great job!”

There were a few diehards in the stands today, feeling the warm Georgia sun, drinking various things from various cans and calling their families. Otherwise, no one else.

Terry Labonte shut the hood of his car with a smile, wiped his brow and chugged some Aquafina. “Boy, I can’t wait to get back here in November. You know, Kim knows one of the managers at this place half an hour from here...they make the best apple cider around then.”

“My treat.” Jeff started for the fence outside the garages. “Be back in a minute. I think this one kid wants an autograph.”

“I’ll meet you here,” said Terry, eyeing his left front wheel well and opening the war wagon. “Gary, I said _one_ spring rubber! Not two.”

Terry made a ten-lap run; his best broke 177. He pulled into his stall next to the 24 car and curled around to look for Jeff.

He wasn’t there.

 _That’s new,_ thought Terry, nonchalant. _There’s more than one person here that doesn’t hate him. The crowd must be big._

He poked his head out and looked toward the fence. The only humanoid shape he could see was a cardboard cutout of Ricky Rudd that, in some bygone age, had held samples of Tide. One of them was still on its shelf, burst open, the detergent coagulating. _Yuck,_ he thought. _Someone should have gotten that by now._

He strolled to a press building - another reporter probably wanted Jeff’s time. The eggshell white door opened without much resistance, and the room was empty except, of course, for one thing. The paper was printed neatly - a holdover from the spring race? Wait, no, there was so much white space. No team logos or anything. A teleprompter script? _That’s not how those work, idiot,_ he thought with a laugh and an eye roll. He moved in closer. Why in the world was it--

_HE’S AT THE ABANDONED JUNKYARD OFF ROUTE 41. COME FIND HIM. - MR. O.N.E._

Kyle bolted to the gate, and Candy, and Junior, and Ward and Terry and Bill and Jeremy. They were ready to storm the place but the gate was, naturally, locked and the barriers were two stories high all the way around. There was a big enough crack between the entrance and the rest of the wall to see inside, though. 

“...the truth is that I was totally definitely working undercover for the Evil Street Machines the whole time. I made you all think I was racing for NASCAR but I...I...I’m working against it.” Jeff hadn’t sweat this much since he’d been in the car. “I bet you’re so mad. Stock car racing is...is the stupidest dumbest thing in the world and I hate everyone who likes it, especially if they come from North Carolina and eat fried chicken. It’s...it’s...wait, what does this last part have to do with anything?”

“SAY IT.” High Voltage drew the makeshift taser she’d kludged together even closer to his face.

“It’s better grilled anyway! It’s better grilled anyway!”

She put the taser back in her pocket.

Brandon hit stop on the tape recorder and dropped the notecard. “I did something! I finally did something!” 

“What the heck is this about?” Jeff spat, wriggling against the post he was tied to, and then his eyes went wide. “By which I mean, uh, what the heck is this _exact thing_ about, and not, you know, your whole plan including the part that’s related to me, because I don’t need to—”

“Oh, good,” came a gravelly rumble from the shadows, and Mr. O.N.E. kicked a loose fender and a refrigerator door out of the way as he made his entrance. “You’re just in time for the speech.”

 _Wonderful,_ Jeff thought. _He wrote a speech._

“You see, there’s one way for you to prevent us from leaking that audio to every racing talk show we can think of. Don’t show up tomorrow.”

“Don’t show up to the tire test?” said Jeff, incredulous. “Why would that help you with anyth—”

_Wait a second. What if..._

“No. No, no, no, you can’t be that stupid - there’s no way you’d have the last race at Atlanta Motor Speedway of all places without a catch. What, are you gonna tell us it’s there and go off to race on the highway, and then say you won, or something?”

Goldenrod took a tired, drained glance at his boss. "God, I told you that would have made more sense," he mumbled.

“Think about it, Jeff, what’s worse?” Mr. O.N.E. stepped on top of an old banana crate, which somehow held. “Getting pickpocketed on the sidewalk, or robbed at home?”

Jeff tried to put the pieces together. A track he and Junior and Ward and everyone, had done so well at for years, taken hundreds of laps on and they wanted to--

Oh, this wasn’t as hard as it seemed. Jeff cocked an eyebrow. “So how are you cheating?”

 _“I THOUGHT YOU’D NEVER ASK!”_ , cheered Mr. O.N.E., flinging up his hands in delight. “Those things we put near our transponders? They’re--”

Get Gone Goldenrod cut in. “We don’t really have to tell him this part, do we? Be reasonab--”

 _“SHUT UP!”_ O.N.E. roared. “Shut up - we’ve been waiting years for this, no one would believe him anyway, and even if they did the only way to find it is to take apart the whole car!” He turned back to Jeff. “Where was I? They’re computer chips built for a purpose. First, they let our cars sneak past one or two of the BOP measures. Not like we need that - we spent our lives racing on the street; a dumb oval is nothing - but I’ll take it. Second...and this is the juicy part...when our--”

High Voltage rapped at his shoulder. “I wanna do the juicy part! I WANNA DO THE JUICY PART!”

Mr. O.N.E. gestured to her. 

“YES! Okay. So I spent years and years searching for the best way to create a certain kind of virus. I reverse-engineered every backdoor and exploit and system killer from Melissa to ILOVEYOU.” She held out a transponder, then opened a laptop featuring a virtual-machine window - a simulation of important things.

One of the important things was a command line - the word SCORING barely visible within its jumbled text. Another was a finance page, giant numbers rising and collecting - at the top: _International Speedway Corporation._

Jeff’s mouth hung wide. “How did you--”

“Oh, please. I duplicated the processes on its page; it’s only a demo. FOR NOW! So if we tell the system my transponder crossed a certain point - say, I dunno, THE FINISH LINE AT ATLANTA WHILE WE’RE IN FIRST PLACE…”

She hit a key. For a moment or two, commands and processes registered and triggered. Then, on the finance page, a value changed. To zero.

So did another. And another, and another, and all of them. “The EXACT signal this transponder gives after a victory...it was the only compatible trigger!”

Jeff gulped. “That’s what this is all for? To bankrupt Daytona?”

“God, no,” said Old Number 7. “This is to bankrupt Indianapolis, Laguna Seca, Spa, Bristol, Benguela, Long Beach, Charlotte, Hockenheim, Topeka, Bathurst, Kyalami, Sears Point _and_ Daytona.”

“Every permanent racing facility on the planet…” Mr. O.N.E. continued, “every cent they made sitting behind the concrete walls, acting like they’d never have to slice between station wagons and leap over crossings and hold their breath making passes on sidewalks, shutting out real drivers--”

Jeff interrupted, deadpan. “You mean drivers that wreck minivans for fun?”

 _“I’M NOT FINISHED,”_ grumbled Mr. O.N.E. “It’ll all get transferred to the seven of us. If they make a cent more, it’ll get transferred to us. If they build a new one or try stealing a street or two for one, we’ll add it to the registry. And when weeds crack open everyone’s favorite places, when the gaudy paint peels off and the press boxes collect dust all over the world...where do you think people will have to race? What do you think will be their only choice?”

“Wait, I know this place,” Jeremy whispered outside the gate. “This is the junkyard Ken Schrader and I snuck into for that midnight dance party back in ‘98! He said the police always skipped it because of some old ordinance about--”  
“Shh!” Kyle had his ear pressed right to the barrier’s metal.

Jeff had held the answer back for a few seconds but, at the realization that everyone was waiting on him, he sighed. “Fine, fine. The street.”

Mr. O.N.E. turned to Jeff with a cocky smirk. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy ending your career right where it started.”

“Why my career?” Jeff implored. “Why is ruining the entire motorsports industry not enough for you? Why am I so special?”

As soon as the words left his mouth Jeff gasped in horror at what he’d said out loud. Frantic, desperate, he tried to bring his shoulders up to his ears, reach an inch downward for some dirty foam or cotton or something he could plug his ears with.

“Too curious for your own good, aren’t you?” Mr. O.N.E. taunted softly. He cleared his throat, took a few deep breaths, removed a little Jeff Gordon banner from his pocket. And he stomped it into the dirt. “It’s because you’re you.”

Jeff had no idea what he meant. “Oh, that makes sense, I understand. Yeah. Now can you let me—”

“No. You’re everything I’ve been talking about at once. They let you drive sprints at 13! You got rides and endorsements left and right with your eyes closed! You went to Busch and Cup without even trying, without even thinking where you were, or that there might be people that didn’t get handed free passes. People that racing was actually hard for, like us.”

“Every word of that is a lie! I’ve been working at this harder than anyone since I was five—”

“And once you got there, the crowd hissed at you and you knew something was wrong, didn’t you? You knew you didn’t belong.”

Jeff stammered, then raised his voice. “I don’t—I don’t care about those people! I don’t—”

“So even with all this golden stuff that fell in your lap, this wonderful life you never deserved, you’re not just nervous. No, you prop up your image, you mention everyone you can in the interviews with that stupid perfect smile and you go to church and you’re so charitable but I know that deep inside, you’re what a real driver never is. You’re scared.”

Jeff had nothing.

“For the longest time, I saw that and all I did was hate you.” Mr. O.N.E. paused for a moment to kick up some stray scrap metal. “And I hated Earnhardt too - the guy everyone already loved, the guy who never cried. Who went fishing and talked in a drawl and drank beer...and belonged. For so long he was the one going on the talk shows and the Power Wheels cars, he was your world’s leader...and he wasn’t some good guy. He would have been a pain in the butt to try to exploit. But you, Jeff Gordon? You were so scared that I realized Project Blueshell could work if you were in that spot instead. And this past February, all of a sudden, you were.”

Jeff blinked hard. “Tell me you’re not saying you-- ”

“Heavens, no, we had nothing to do with that. Even we have standards,” Get Gone Goldenrod chuckled. “But we didn’t exactly wear our finest tuxes to the funeral.” And every ESM there chuckled with him.

Outside, Terry had to physically restrain Dale Jr. from clawing at the gate’s lock.

Jeff looked right in Mr. O.N.E.’s eyes. “You _are_ evil.”

“Wow, thanks!” he boomed, all but spitting in Jeff’s face. “What, you think that hurts me? You think I don’t get called that every time I do what I love? I know I’m evil, Wonder Boy, and I own it! I accept it! That’s what I know and you don’t - when people don’t like you, you don’t hide and cry like a wimp. You let it in, and you let it be true, and it ignites and glows and melts and consumes until you have nothing inside you but white-hot fire to burn down everything that stands in your way!”

“So you throw a tantrum and turn into a cyber-criminal.”

“Now you’re getting it!”

Jeff sighed again.

“And I was right about you,” Mr. O.N.E. continued. “You said yes! You were so ready to pack up and rush to somewhere different where no one in the crowd would be a big fat meanie, you _let_ us exploit you! Yeah, I wanted to destroy the fake parade you call racing, but I wanted to do it by going straight for the leader and landing a direct hit. That was Project Blueshell.”

“I knew it,” Candy whispered. “Mario Kart.”

Back in the junkyard, Mr. O.N.E. drew in a breath and savored the dusty air. 

Puzzled, Jeff spoke up. “Wait, but couldn’t you have just--”

“Lake Norman.”

Jeff rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever. But couldn’t we just--”

“Lake Norman!”

“Yeah, I know!” Jeff asserted, “But also, couldn’t it just be--”

_“Highland Beach, Florida.”_

Jeff shut up.

“You have two choices, Wonder Boy. Race, and lose the respect of everyone on earth who’s seen an automobile go fast. Stay out, and there should be enough time for you to sign with one of those F1 teams before the trigger gets pulled.”

“You won’t be talking so loud when we see you tomorrow!” yelled Mayfield through the crack.

“Oh, goody, your friends are here,” said Mr. O.N.E. “Catch!” The ESMs that accompanied him here had disappeared, and he threw the keys over the barrier before taking off himself. 

“Hey boss, I’m here,” muttered Splat, just now arriving at the junkyard. “6:05, like you said--”

“Great!” Mr. O.N.E. cooed, sprinting away. “We’re doing the rest of it somewhere else.”

“The rest of what?” Splat’s brow had folded a bit. “What did you all even--”

The Lumina’s door had already shut.

“Ugh," Splat groaned. "Nobody tells me anything.”

It was Kyle that got to Jeff first and untied him, the growls of six engines and one electric motor fading fast in the distance. “What are we waiting for? We all gotta head back to the garage and we gotta do it now.”

“Yeah, man,” said Ward. “If they wanted weeds to grow in a buncha places, all the jerks had to do was ask about my reserves. Maybe the llamas could’a eaten ‘em. Or somethin’.”

“Jeff, it’s okay!” Candy rushed to him. “I’ll...I’ll reread my notes. Twice. Three times. Four times. I’ll stay up all night until...until...when are you gonna draw for starting spots tomorrow? After the test, probably? It’s gotta be--”

Jeff still looked down. “I’m not.”

Effigies. Effigies. Effigies.

Candy looked in different directions for a moment, dumbfounded. “What do you mean, you’re not? Did they tell you we had to decide it another way?”

“I’m not drawing for a spot because I’m not going to the track because I _can’t_ go to the track.”

On the largest, furthest junk pile, a plywood sheet slipped out of place and everyone could hear it.

“You’re not serious.” Junior shook his head briskly, sharply, the way you might if you’re freezing to death. “You know what they’re doing, right? You’re the only one that’s been as fast as Mr. O.N.E. this whole dang time; of course they want you off the grid! You walk, they win! And Hickory closes, and Myrtle Beach closes, and Concord closes, and Lowe’s closes, and...”

“And South Boston closes,” said Ward.

“And Nashville closes,” said Mayfield.

“And--and…” Junior breathed hard, stomped for balance, like wind had been knocked out of him. “...shoot, man.”

Jeff waited to speak until he was sure Junior was done. “And if I race I’ll be the laughing stock of everyone with a working TV. For all I know, the Evil Street Machines are gonna pin the whole plan on me! In _Georgia!_ ”

Bill spoke up. “Junior’s right; you have to help us through this. I just got here!”

“Listen, I’m sorry,” said Jeff. He thought of Rio Linda, and Sandusky, and Sears Point, and Indianapolis, and his voice cut short. “I’m...I’m sorry to all of you; you’ve been awesome teammates. I know…” He looked to the seven others, not finding any words.

Effigies.

“...that this doesn’t look like it makes any sense, but I don’t have a choice.”

Jeremy piped up, not understanding. “What do you mean? You always have a choice. Like this one time, I didn't know what speaker system to get for the--"

“We’ve been with you through this whole thing, Jeff.” Kyle cut in, stamping his foot. “No. You can’t just go.”

“They’re right,” said Jeff. “I never belonged.”

A long way outside, there was a yellow ‘80s Malibu with bright red lettering. A cab.

Jeff backed toward the gate. “All this time I’ve been wishing it would stop.” And he slumped out the gate toward it.

Candy and Junior, both shaking, followed him to the end of the gate and around the corner. “They were right about something else, weren’t they?” Junior cried. 

Jeff turned around.

“I knew this was a terrible idea, but you decided for us...all so you could have ‘different expectations’ or something!” Junior sighed heavy. “I was starting to think you were a good leader. I needed one bad.”

Jeff put his hand to his own neck. “I’m gonna get destroyed if I--”

“You don’t think I will?” Candy sprinted up to him, took both her hands in one of his. “Jeff, I spent my life thinking that if something made you happy it didn’t really mean anything, that if something meant anything it couldn’t make you happy. That driving for hours on end to the next five-minute escape and lying to my family was gonna be it for me. Then I found racing again! _You_ helped me find racing again! I was just starting to realize how much it matters - just starting to be home. And I...I know what you told me about not fitting in, but I’m not gonna sit here and let that beat you!” She remembered to breathe. “Do you want to lose, Jeff? Or do you want to win?”

Again, Jeff had nothing.

For several moments, he stood there, uncertain.

He slipped the cab driver his fare and climbed in, and the Malibu was gone down Route 41.

Lost, Candy and Junior turned to each other. They had nowhere else to turn, and--

The gate was still unlocked. 

The team was still inside.

Bill and Terry and Kyle and Ward and Jeremy, all of them also lost, were still gathered close. “My first run in a Cup car, my first top 5 in a Cup car, now my first time seeing racing itself get torn apart forever,” said Bill, trying in vain to find a bright side. He sighed. “What a summer.”

“We had a good run, I guess. Lots of good memories.” said Ward. “Especially that one time me and my brother totaled each other and we were gonna have to spend all week in the body shop and I was so mad I lifted him up by the--wait, how was that good again? Aw, heck with it.”

Jeremy, realizing something, sank further. “Oh, as if this wasn’t bad already,” he blurted, kicking a broken microwave, “didn’t Mr. O.N.E. say we had to use _all_ the cars from Bonneville?” He made a fist. “What else is he gonna do to us if we don’t?”

Terry processed that, and his head dropped into his left hand. “So now I have to call...who? Bobby? Schrader? Jack Sprague? Jimmie Johnson? And tell them, ‘hey, by the way, if you don’t hop into someone else’s car and help win this race you found out about the night before, there’s never gonna be a race again’? I’ve fixed a lot of stupid stuff, but nothing like this. Not in my li--”

He was cut off when someone - someone he wasn’t expecting - swung the gate back open, their eyes locked on that 24 banner in the dirt.

They moved further toward it, and as the glints of streetlights and shadows fell certain ways, everyone could see them clearly. In awe of the surrealism of this, the drivers looked to each other, back and forth and back, eyes bulged, eyebrows up, jaws cranked down.

The seeker bent down to the flag, moved an old movie poster out of its way, and picked it up.

And no one spoke when Candy dusted off the number 24.


	8. Atlanta

“No, what? What?...Why would I want the wrestling blanket? That thing itched like crazy anyway!”

…

“I don’t care.”

…

“No, don’t try and turn around now!” The Motorola was steady in Candy’s hand. “You’ve been telling me my whole life to stop caring about everything I care about - you think I didn’t see you throwing out the bun cha I made when I wasn’t looking? I was _eight,_ Jim! You _still_ haven’t even tried it! Well, I found people that care as much as me, and…”

Candy peeked out of the garage. She didn’t have much time left to take in the warm air, the smell of oil, the buzz of the midway. Especially today. Especially with what could come after.

Her voice shook. “...and I’m gonna drive like it’s the last time.” She hung up.

“Starting fourth, in the number 24 Chevrolet…” The loudspeakers buzzed for a few seconds. Then, a low mumble. “Wait, what?”

The fans looked to each other, thunderstruck even as they adjusted their hats, lathered more sunscreen, took another bite or so of turkey leg. There were less of them here than there would be if they’d had more than a day’s notice, but enough to fill about half the grandstands.

The PA crackled again. “Joe, if you’re screwing with me again, I’m gonna...what? WHAT? Who the heck is...No, my finger’s not on the button! I said who the heck is Candy Thanh-True?”

The doors went swoosh and Candy very slowly stepped out, not making eye contact with any of the thousands upon thousands in front of her. 

“I told you we should have waited for Darlington,” she heard one man say. “First it’s hotter than forty ‘leven dangits out here, now the lineup changes and they don’t tell us?”

She breathed in deep as she advanced - she was surviving so far, she thought. Barely, but she was. All she had to do was--

“Tell me I’m not seeing this.”

Candy gulped.

“Tell me the country boys weren’t desperate enough to haul _you_ out of the dirt.”

Holding the moment back as long as possible, she craned her head an inch at a time toward Mr. O.N.E. behind her. 

“After all these years. I was wondering when we’d get to stuff you into the wall again.”

“Funny.” She composed herself and looked up. “I was wondering when you’d get a decent haircut.”

“To be fair, that’s a good point.” Get Gone Goldenrod had perked up behind him. 

Mr. O.N.E. twitched. “What is with you lately?”

“I’m only saying; you could use a little more off the—”

Mr. O.N.E. raised a finger sharp and quick, and Goldenrod shut it. “None of your contradictions today. Are we clear?”

Eyes wide, Goldenrod simply nodded and looked away.

Then, as one, they glared at Candy, and Mr. O.N.E. spoke up. “Watch your back.”

With Goldenrod drawing the pole, Kyle second, Mr. O.N.E. third and Candy fourth, the fourteen cars rolled out together for the last time. 

Out here with the team yesterday, Candy had felt so freed, so ready, so in front of everything that had ever been in her way. Now, surrounded by the ESMs and by everyone else, she felt the slate-gray bars of the 24 cockpit about to close in on her.  
Singing usually calmed her down. “I thought that I couldn’t love again, ‘til I saw you...tonight...every word you say, smiles you--” It wasn’t working. “This is crazy.”

The field approached turn 4. 

The fans rose.

Every car bunched together.

 _A little longer,_ Mr. O.N.E. thought with a chuckle, right foot hovering. _Just a little longer._

Green.

After yesterday Candy thought she’d be prepared for the lurch back in the seat, the thunder, the all-at-once rush of sensory cacophony but no one ever is, and as she poured into the first turn and the right side of her skull was pulled to the headrest, the GT90 and the Z34 took up less and less space in her windshield - they were five lengths in front before the backstretch.

By lap 11 of 100, Goldenrod still led Mr. O.N.E. by a tenth or so. Candy was back in sixth, hitting the marks Jeff had told her to yesterday, clocking in laps that were decent enough to keep up but slower than the leaders. In the mirror behind her, she thought she saw purple.

SmashChamps wanted to take a swipe. Like always. 

She sawed right, let the rectangular purple thing go by way too hard on the gas, and watched as it threw itself three lanes up the banking. The 24 powered back past.

Back in tenth on lap 23, his car at one end of the back straightaway and the leaders at the other, Dale Jr. couldn’t keep his eyes off the speck of yellow in the lead. The one that had not paused for even half a second before laughing at what had happened to his father. At the worst day of his life.

He gripped the wheel tight.

They were on lap 27 when Jeff heard Bill Weber hock Conseco insurance from the hotel TV. Oh, right. NBC was back from break.

Jeff had practically been watching the race through his fingers, and seeing Mr. O.N.E. make a pass for the lead, he turned his head away again. 

That Bible they had in the nightstand drawer was a decent read for a little while.

He glanced up on lap 32 and the 1 car had half a second on the field. Where the heck was his cellular? 

All he had to do was make one phone call to BAR-Honda and there’d be a bright side to today. One call and he’d finally be where he was supposed to, he’d be the guy who was with his own kind instead of mucking up a place he was never meant for.

...for an hour, probably, before all the tracks got robbed - but still! No more effigies, no more getting jeered by hundreds of thousands of people at once, no more Wonder Boy! He picked up the phone; he was going to do it.

He was going to do it.

He was going to do it.

...Eventually he was going to do it. 

Confused, he thumbed through the Bible again. This was the one thing he’d wanted for almost seven years and here, now, with nothing in the way, he was holding back and he had no idea why.

He rolled his eyes, put the book to the side and dialed the number. Once he got it over with he’d definitely feel better about it. “Hi, Jodi?”

“Mr. Gordon, it is so nice to hear from you. What’s on your mind?”

“I’ve made a decision. You can tell Mr. Pollock right now that I—”

They were showing a flashback to the Kmart 400.

He stopped. Then he realized he had stopped. “You...you can tell him I--” 

They showed his door-to-door fight for that win. His finish, his cheers over the radio. And, when he got out of the car in victory lane, his cheek-to-cheek smile. 

The one that was gone as soon as he saw the stands, heard the boos. 

But only then.

If this place had a DVR Jeff would have mashed rewind so hard it broke the button, but all the cabinet had was that GameCube controller where the minimum play time was a whole hour. Did it have Madden? _Wait, wait, no. Focus. Michigan._

Jeff replayed it in his head. He was happy, then he shrunk. He was so happy. 

Like he was at Rio Linda. And Sandusky. And Atlanta. Like he was every time he made a perfect power move, drafted into a slingshot, hugged a devoted fan, spoke at the awards on top of the world. Every time he stood on the gas pedal of that throaty Chevy V8 and never looked back, heart pounding, sweat pooling, whole body and soul alive. Free. Every time he did what he and so many people had loved since before they could read, and...he’d never get to be that happy again. 

No one would. And whether or not they knew it was all his fault, he did.

If only he hadn’t spent all those years shrinking…

“Jeff?”

Jodi was still on the phone. The 10-second flashback had just now ended. He stumbled with the phone in surprise, barely caught it with two fingers, brought it back to his ear. “Yes, hi! Hello. Hey. I mean, hi. What now?”

“Your decision...what might that be?”

Mr. O.N.E. roared into the pits for the halfway break first, then Goldenrod, Splat, Old Number 7, Terry and Junior. Behind the 8 car, Candy downshifted too late - she coasted past it. Cringing and throwing it into reverse, she backed up a bit.

The engine was off now. The crowd still muttered.

Heaving out a sigh, she removed her helmet and wiped her face. “Craven?” 

The 24’s gasman came up to her window slowly, gently. “Hey, um, are you...” He sighed, searched for the right words. “Are you--”

“Of course she’s not alright,” Kyle Petty blared. “You look like you saw at _least_ three ghosts.”

“Can one of you get me my cell phone?”

Candy turned to her phone, sighing, and dialed Jeff’s number, not moving a muscle as it went straight to voicemail. Hearing her friend’s voice, so present and so out of reach, she felt everything at once.

She hung up and maybe it was hopeless and maybe it was stupid but, on autopilot, she redialed.

Voicemail.

Yeah, it was stupid.

That she was beating four professional stock car drivers had barely crossed her mind. Jeff would have been winning by now. He would have been saving motorsports itself by now. And he’d just _left_ , and she was back in midfield...it figured that this was going so wrong, didn’t it? That as soon as she finally had what she’d wished for her whole life, as soon as she did anything that meant anything it was going to get taken away because of--

Why was there a can of Pepsi Twist in her lap?

She looked out her window and there was nothing to see except a war wagon. Great, as if today wasn’t bad enough now there were soda ghosts haunting the track. Couldn’t they have waited until-- 

“They had these at the hotel. I think you could use one.”

Jeff popped out from under the window.

She tore herself out of the seat, nearly banging her elbow on the wayward steering wheel, and stumbled out of the 24 car to meet him.

Almost at once, fans in the stands gave a bump to their headset-shod colleagues, crew members craned backwards, hot pass holders booked it. Every single eye at the track fell to Jeff as the True Racers undid their belts.

And Mr. O.N.E.? He could physically feel one of his teeth cracking as he shoved the driver’s door open.

Candy covered her mouth, teared up and sucked in air. “I thought you said you were done?”

Jeff smirked and gave a little shrug. “I want to win.”

They hugged tight.

“YOU!” Mr. O.N.E. marched to the scene and an inspector had to hold him back. “We had a _deal_ , you piece of trash!”

“Eh, Bill Davis and I had a deal too,” said Jeff, nonchalant. “Sorry, Ward. Too close to home?”

“No, no, no,” Ward uttered with a smile, and he shook Jeff’s hand firmly. “I didn’t even hear what you said.”

Mr. O.N.E. turned his head another way. “High Voltage! Get those tapes to every dang reporter you see!” She retrieved a plastic bag from her car and took off into the infield.

“Took you a little bit to come to your senses, huh?”, came a voice to Jeff’s left, and he swung around to find Dale Jr. with crossed arms.

Sheepish, he put his head down. “It took a lot. I’m sorry I ever left you.”

The next thing he knew, Junior had given him a handshake too. “Thanks for doing the right thing. Welcome back, team leader.”

“Hey, you sissy rainbow-wearer!” Something boomed in front of Jeff, and that something climbed _over_ the inspector. “You might have come back, but you forgot one thing,” boomed SmashChamps as he wound up his massive, bulging, veiny right fist, “My hands have bones in them!”

Jeff ducked down and survived the ambush without a scratch. He also, of course, had not realized that Terry Labonte had run up behind him.

_Thwack._

Sunlight. “No, Mom, no.” Terry half-opened his left eye, then his right, as he slurred words together. “I don’t want any more creamed corn for--GAH!” He jolted awake as he realized where he was, but he calmed quick. “How long have I been laying on pit road?” 

“A few minutes,” said Jeff, starting to help him up.

Terry spotted some asphalt grit stained on his suit, wiping it off in slight disgust. "Really? Right on Tony's face? I need a wipe or something."

Behind them, there was a commotion. “Are you nuts? We’re this close to pulling off Blueshell and you go galloping in like Godzilla taking shots at people?” Splat, for the first time that anyone could remember, had raised his voice. Slightly.

“You’re just jealous you can’t knock a guy out in one punch, Mister Spaghetti Arms!” Comfortable behind the wheel, SmashChamps kissed his bicep.

“We--I--we--” Splat glanced back at the Hendrick drivers, his face locking into a concerned grimace, and threw his hands up at SmashChamps. “You gotta do that stuff in _private!_ Otherwise it makes us look bad!”

“We’re supposed to look bad; we’re the Evil Street Machines! You’re so stupid, I bet you think tadpoles turn into frogs!”  
“That’s exactly what they--How are the inspectors even letting you in the car?”

An inspector, eyes set on SmashChamps’ veiny fist, answered. “The thing about that is, uh, he’s, um, already in the car. Heh. Can’t help you. Bye.”

Jeff had turned back to Terry by now. “You feel okay?”

Terry rose proudly to his feet. “What, he thinks a little scrap can stop the Iceman?” he scoffed. “If Ricky Rudd can tape his eyes open, then I caaaaaaa…” Jeff caught him mid-fall and tapped his shoulder.

He slurred soft again. “Okay, Toucan Sam, let’s follow our noses to the--” Consciousness. “Oh, come on. We just found the LemonBerry Stripes!”

“You gotta go to the care center,” said Jeff, sitting him down and gesturing to a medic who’d been watching over the scene. “Get him a stretcher.”

Another medic leaned over Terry. “I’ve seen this before. You’ll probably be fine for the race next week...but not this one.”

Terry groaned, more in disappointment than pain. “Jeff, I don’t want to sit back and watch. You’ll be down a True Racer.”

Without hesitating, Jeff looked straight to Candy. “No, we won’t.” And Candy looked back.

The engines fired again, except the green car’s electric motor. Its driver still wasn’t here.

Candy, still getting used to her second new driver’s seat of the day, radioed in to Jeff. “You sure you don’t want me to go kick her into the sun before she blackmails you?”

“Let her,” said Jeff in an instant. “I need you all on the track.” He rolled out from seventh, not looking back. “We gotta get the win and stop that trigger.”

From fifth, behind a wall of four ESMs, Candy flipped through her memories like a book. “I don’t think I have to tell you it’s gonna take a while to find a way by Old Number 7.”

“There’s a lot of room here and three of us behind him.” Jeff took a quick look in the mirror. “Four, if Bill can get by the 47.”

Junior cut in. “The 7 can’t be in three places at once. Heck with it; let’s all pick a line and whoever gets by gets by.”

“That might only work once,” said Jeff. “We need to hedge our bets a little more.”

Junior nodded. “Go on.”

The field paced on, thinking, scrubbing, anticipating.

When the pace car pulled in again, those few hundred feet between turn four and start/finish seemed like miles and miles. Everyone’s eyes shot to the starter’s stand, not wandering an inch, not blinking once.

Green.

Mr. O.N.E. mashed the power down across the line; Goldenrod and Splat stayed with him. Candy cut left on Old Number 7 but Old Number 7 cut left on her too; she couldn’t get a fender under. Junior got alongside her as they poured into 1 but that was it. Onto the backstretch the 8 and 24 swung to the right as one and the Ferrari matched that move just as quick while Candy was picking that lost momentum back up. She made a run to the inside in 3 and 4 that was also blocked.

“You kids and your games,” said Old Number 7, haphazardly chopping up to the middle. “Don’t you know who I am?”

On lap 62 the top four were the same. It was Junior who had been taking wild shots at the 7 after getting around Candy a few miles ago, not picking his foot up from the throttle until long after corner entry, swerving this way and that to counter, and he hadn’t gotten anywhere either. 

He was starting to, though.

“He’s been lagging a bit out of 2 the last couple times,” he radioed. “Is that normal? Is he gonna try anything stupid to counter it?”

“Nothing stupider than usual,” said Jeff. “If the guy actually held a line he’d be winning this thing.”

“That’s true,” said Candy, something dawning on her. “He was always a moving chicane even if he didn’t have anyone to block.”

“Junior,” said Jeff, “what if we didn’t play his game?”

The next couple runs down the back looked routine from up in the stands, the red car inching closer as it hugged the wall, the yellow one weaving here and there. It was only on lap 67 that Old Number 7 sensed what was coming, went bottom to top and held the Ferrari there.

Junior stayed in his tracks coming onto the backstretch.

A car length. Half. A quarter. _Clank!_ “Do you have any idea how much I bought this for?” Old Number 7 grunted, but Junior kept shoving him along until right before turn 3 when the move came.

The 8 slipped under. 

“What?” Old Number 7 gathered it, scooted lower to try and crowd Junior, and they were neck and neck down through the dogleg. “You know, when I was your age I never used my bumper like that!”

Junior scoffed. “Then what the heck _did_ you do?”

“...Car stuff! Definitely stuff with cars!” He squirmed a little. “Why, uh, why do you think I’m so good at this?”

Out of his mirror, Splat saw every square inch of what was going on.

They were still side by side in front of Candy and she had a run. She saw an opening out of 2 and went outside to get 7 out of his element, box him in. 

“You ever been three wide at 180 before?” Jeff asked. 

“Uh, maybe 150!” Down the back and into 3 the Testa Rossa squeezed closer to her, and she breathed even heavier than she was before.

The three cars wound high and low and back and forth, fenders inching past each other, throttles carefully feathering in and out through the turns, tires and suspensions throwing the cars a foot here and a foot there, inches from touching. Into 1 Candy side-drafted the 7. Out of 3 Junior slipped and almost fell back. Down the back Old Number 7 got loose for a second. They stayed in formation for the next lap, two, two and a half; the Ferrari got a run and shot out by itself.

“No more playtime, rookies.” He set his sights on Splat.

The truck hadn’t been far out in front of him to begin with, maybe five lengths, but Old Number 7 cut that down in a couple more laps. Look at how fast he was, he thought. And now he was about to take third - it wasn’t like Splat to put up a fight on the track. They’d all be fools not to let him by now. He moved outside.

The truck cut right.

“What the heck?” He cut left and Splat blocked him again. “I’m faster than you!” 

Splat mumbled over the radio perfectly calm, as though going through his morning routine. “If you were faster than me you wouldn’t be behind me.”

Jeff and Candy and Junior would have stared at each other, not believing, if there weren’t windows and roll bars and NACA ducts and sheet metal between them and they also weren’t going 180 miles an hour. They still didn’t believe it, of course, as they gained on the skirmish. 

Old Number 7 had speed on the high side; he got up to Splat’s door as they flew into the corner and everyone let off - the 1500 beat him back to the gas. “No, you idiot!” He tried again, got a fender ahead of the truck but no more. “I have to--I’m supposed to--I’m faster than you, okay? How old even are you? I bet that’s a fake mustache, you...fake mustache man!”

“Mr. O.N.E.’s been in front the whole time.” Splat adjusted his glasses. “Why do you care?”

“Since when do _you_ care about anything?” cried 7, getting a run down the back. “You were the one that screwed up the reveal back in Idaho! You were the one that let Gordon get to the lead that same day! You’re the one we don’t even let in the tech room, because you’re the one that always has some stupid way to butt into the plan!” Entering turn 3, he didn’t come close to lifting.

 _Bang!_ The sides of the Ferrari and the pickup scratched and scraped together, flecks of orange and white flying from the truck. “What’s going on in your tiny head?” Old Number 7 had his eyes locked on the pickup. “WHO ARE YOU ANYMORE?!?”

He had to take a couple of moments to catch his breath. Slowly the truck swung up to the outside and in the instant he saw it, all the work he’d done to catch his breath went out the window. Junior, Jeff and Candy were speechless too.

The left side of it was now a bold green, and that wasn’t even the most shocking part. No, the most shocking part was the decal right under the driver’s window. A giant white Hendrick 24.

Splat radioed. “Funny you should ask.”

Before he could even yell again Old Number 7 had been clipped in the right rear and was sawing the wheel, careening up toward the turn 4 wall as the 8, the 5, the 24 went by; something popped. The right rear, after he’d banged fenders with the truck...then the left rear. Melted, ripped chunks of rubber flew up to the wall and settled on the asphalt. His Testa Rossa careened onto the apron and slid to a stop, and slapping the steering wheel, he downshifted and wiggled the car to pit road as best he could.

“Wait, what the heck?” Junior’s eyes had bugged. “Did Splat just do what I think he did?”

“The name’s not Splat.” The truck driver’s mullet fell out of his helmet all in one piece, and he flung his shades onto the dashboard. “It’s Sprague.”

“Jack!” Jeff called out, delighted. “No wonder you did what you did to me at Red Dust! You do know what bump drafting is!” Jack got Goldenrod aero loose and the GT90 fell way back behind Candy.

Candy radioed. “So all these years you _pretended_ to be an Evil Street Machine?”

“Couple years ago I was heading back from a sponsor meeting,” said Jack, “Stopped at a Circle K and overheard a couple of guys talking about the plan...O.N.E. and Goldenrod. It gave me chills. The cops weren’t much help, so I did what anyone would do...get an old street truck that they’d modified and painted for one of my Quaker State commercials, paint it again, buy new wheels, get a fake mullet, dye my stache black, find the jerks out west, act like their friend and try to sabotage the thing from inside. Least I could do, really.”

“Makes sense,” said Mayfield. “This one time at Whitesville some guy spun me, so I prank-called him pretending he was fired. Then he spun me again.”

“I didn’t realize what I’d done until after they took me in,” Jack continued. “I wanted to ring up Bill Jr., Mike Helton, John Darby, everyone. Then I saw the tech room. I saw High Voltage soldering together things I never would have believed. If she of all people found out I was a mole, the whole team would swipe my cellular and my laptop...and track everyone I’d ever spoken to in two seconds flat. Everyone in the sport. And the sport would have been in more danger than it was before I’d done this. So instead, I got in the way however I could and promised I wouldn’t reveal myself...until the very end.”

“You pretended to forget the plan, didn’t you?” said Jeff. “Goldenrod trusted you to tell me, and you didn’t on purpose!” He chuckled. “I am _so_ asking Rick to put you in the Busch car!”

Jack didn’t have a chance to answer before Mr. O.N.E. put the brakes on. “YOU TRAITOR! YOU FILTHY WEASEL! HOW ABOUT THIS, HUH?” 

Jack went spinning off the bumper of the 1, right into Dale Jr.’s path.

Junior’s windshield filled with orange and green.

And then it filled with the gray of the asphalt because he checked up just in time for the truck to miss him. It went spinning into the infield, having touched nothing else.

Sixteen to go and Gordon was by the 8 car, into second. Right behind Mr. O.N.E.

“Hey there, buddy!” Jeff beamed into the radio, grin as wide as a tire. “You--”

“Yes, I remember you. No, I didn’t miss you.” Mr. O.N.E. hadn’t cooled down. “Can we get this over with fast?”

“Of course we can,” said Jeff. “I’m Wonder Boy.”

The two leaders poured it on in 3 and 4, separating from the pack. “I don’t get this,” said Mr. O.N.E. “All you had to do was sit this one out and you’d have everything you wanted. You could have signed the F1 deal! You could have stopped being the bad guy!”

Jeff had cut a tenth off the lead. “Here’s the problem. That’s not what I wanted.”

“Don’t lie to me, Gordon! I know you! I _studied_ you! I--”

Another tenth. “Maybe before all this I thought it was the easy way out...but what I wanted, that was different. It’s sad, really - if things had gone different for you, we could have talked about so much over dinner. Now I know what you know. I _am_ the bad guy - maybe I always will be. And if I’m gonna race the way that makes me the happiest I can be, all I can do is own it.” Out of 4, he was two lengths behind. “The difference is, I’m not gonna let it in.”

“Also he doesn’t go full throttle through crosswalks,” Kyle added.

Jeff cleared his throat. “Yeah, that too.” He packed it into 1 but couldn’t get within reach. Out of 2 the margin stayed about the same, two lengths, almost three when they got to turn 3. Out of their windshields, side by side, Candy and Junior watched every run the leaders got in this stalemate, every feathering of the throttle, every arc. Candy scooted outside for a better look, right near the wall, and Jeff came over the radio.

“Don’t go that high! Don’t go that high!”

“What?” Candy asked.

“We’ve been out here a while; there’s a lot of marbles up next to the wall. Especially in 3 and 4 after the 7 popped his tires.”

“Ten-four,” she said, right as her mirror changed colors.

Purple and yellow. 

After being nowhere for the last several laps, Get Gone Goldenrod and SmashChamps were cannonballs all of a sudden. Junior radioed in. “Jeff, you see what’s happening behind us?” 

“Shoot.” Jeff had caught the scene in his mirror. “One of you needs to get in front now. Right now.”

“What?” said Candy.

“You being right next to each other is gonna slow you down, and if those two get to me I’ll be boxed in. You gotta keep them behind you!”

 _I gotta try a different line,_ Jeff thought. He took the middle, got inches from the 1’s bumper, and when they came out of the corner the Lumina sped away again.

“Do me a favor, SmashChamps..." Mr. O.N.E. growled, "turn the 5 car into junk for me.”

SmashChamps gunned for an opening under the yellow car and got close enough to the Snap, Crackle and Pop decals on Candy’s rear bumper that she felt herself about to loosen up; she’d felt it dozens of times. On instinct she pressed the brake pedal a third of the way down, caught the purple car in its tracks and it had to let off too but it cut to the outside and Candy, with half the traction, found herself having to make an even quicker block or he’d blow by and Junior would be outnumbered.

She did. “Problem solved. For now. He’s still fast, I can tell.”

Junior stared down the GT90’s reflection through the dogleg and took a deep breath.

“I can practically hear you getting emotional in there.” Get Gone Goldenrod rolled his eyes. “I know why, too.” His grille inched up to Junior’s bumper and sawed left, and when the 8 car blocked they both went down further, and further, and further - you could have fit a Micro Machine between them as they hit the white line. “I’m saying this as a word of advice...there’s no signature family move to pull this time.” They stayed tucked together out of 4. “ _I’m_ the one behind _you._ ”

Black shirts in the stands. “I know more than you think,” Junior spat, his eyes shuttering between the windshield and the mirror through the dogleg. 

“I’m only telling you the facts; do you know as much as he did? This is shaping up to be the last race you’ll ever race, and look at you. Stunned. Unprepared. Intimidated.” Goldenrod got to an opening into 1. They were side by side.

“See what I mean? He wouldn’t have made that mistake,” he muttered. “He’d have this whole thing wrapped already.”

Junior drifted high to side-draft him and if the 8 car’s rubber was one lap older, one iota less efficient they’d have touched and jolted a bunch of the marbles out of place in a crash. They stayed together through 2 but when they got to the backstretch the GT90 slowly, sternly, advanced. “Everyone’s watching you. So if you think you’re about to pull off the next Dale Earnhardt miracle - send me around and come out the end without a scratch the way he did - you might want to save your stepmom the repair bill.” He was almost a length ahead, almost, and they fought again into 3.

In his mirror, Jeff saw the battle in his mirror and gulped. Coming up on eight to go, Mr. O.N.E. was still ahead. 

Junior threw it into the corners, his breath as quick as his Chevy, his veins pounding harder than its engine, and he still couldn’t clear the yellow car. What was he missing; what couldn’t he do? Why was he so helpless? Just great; when Dale Earnhardt’s own son had his back against the wall and every eye on him, just like Senior had worked through with a smile a thousand times, all he was going to do was--

“Junior!” Jeff’s voice was on his radio. “Whatever he’s having you do, whatever he’s having you think, that’s what he wants!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not so good at shaking that off,” Junior resigned, voice clearly cracking. “I’m not my dad.”

Jeff paused for a second or two, thinking. “Remember the Rich Vogler story?”

Junior was still even with Goldenrod, losing grip. “What does Rich Vogler have to do with this race? There’s less than--”

“Remember when I found a way to tell you the end? Remember the way you drove after?”

 _Daytona,_ Junior thought. _That night the weight got lifted off. The night I stopped trying to see the air._

_Wait a minute..._

“You pulled it off _because_ you weren’t your dad! Because you didn’t have to do what he did - you did what he knew you could do on your own!”

At that, Junior’s breath left him.

“And I knew you could do it too.”

They passed start/finish again, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the pits. And High Voltage’s empty car.

Looking ahead to Jeff’s Monte Carlo, Junior switched his radio dial to Get Gone Goldenrod. “My dad did impossible stuff, you’re right.” He arc’d it into 1 and 2 as bravely as before, nearly clipping the apron. “He would start moves I couldn’t believe...I was sure he’d wipe out, and he still held on.” Down the back Junior brought it inside, even as Get Gone Goldenrod kept it straight a width from the wall. The 8 only had half a car on the GT90, no more, and they’d be even again by the next run out of 4. “But you know what he was never young and stupid enough to try?”

Goldenrod held in a chuckle. “Enlighten me.”

“This.” He turned the dial again. “Go low, Candy.”

Right before entry, Goldenrod noticed for a split second that the banking of turn 3 looked slightly blurrier than usual. In the split second after, everything else registered with him - the rattle, the boom, his left front fender wedged into the crumpled contingencies of the 8 car as Junior kept it turned hard right, right, right into the wall. The right side of the GT90 tore apart on impact, its front suspension gave way. Junior’s nose was whipped to the concrete, the right half of it pancaked, and steam began to rise from somewhere under the right front wheel well.

Candy and SmashChamps got past clean before the cars sank down the banking and righted; Bill and Kyle and the rest did too. Disgusted, Goldenrod parked it against the inside wall of turn 4. _Fine,_ he thought. _I guess I’ll get it fixed again._

Junior had limped right by him into the pits, not looking back. Easing the junked car into his stall, he set his eyes on the infield and got out in record time. “Dale Earnhardt Jr., an unusual wreck there…” NBC had already sent a pit reporter. “...are you okay?”

Junior bolted further into the infield, scanning around, never looking in the camera as it followed. “I’m fine now. Son of a gun had it out for us the whole summer and I got sick of it. Now do you know where--”

“And some shocking audio just surfaced to us; last night Jeff Gordon admitted he’s been working with the--”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” said Junior. As he peered back into the camera, something dawned on him. “And speaking of that...”

Six to go. Gordon had a run on the 1 down the back - there was an opening up top and he took it. Into 3, both cars let off side by side, engines dying down and rumbling quiet until Jeff beat Mr. O.N.E. back to the gas. 

He had a fender, half a car, three-quarters of a car on the Lumina when Old Number 7 showed up right in front of him, slowing up on purpose. Jeff had no choice but to swerve past, mess up his line, slot back in a few lengths behind the 1. 

SmashChamps inched back up to Candy on the frontstretch and as they got closer to turn 1 Candy left him room on the high side, glancing back steady in the mirror, daring him to try something. He took the bait and slid in too hot, tried to cut her off left but there was no room and no momentum; she went back by.

Out of 2 he sniffed a draft - something neither of them had done before today - and got a run to the bottom that she couldn’t block in time. She braced.

And good thing she braced, because the next thing she felt was Bill giving her a huge bump-draft. “Right behind you! Hey, you think this’ll get us noticed? Man, I wonder if Whit and Marlo are still with ESPN; I always wanted to meet them.” They were past the 47 together by the exit of the next turn. 

Back behind Mr. O.N.E., Jeff refocused and began to chop down hundredths. At four to go he was two lengths behind; he set him up to gun it low after the dogleg but the Lumina took his line away all through 1 and 2. Onto the back Jeff went high, not too high but high enough that he got his nose up against the right rear wheel of the 1 car, and only that much.

“Oh, I know, I’ll try going around the giant circle this way!” snickered Mr. O.N.E., sarcastic as he’d ever been. “No, wait, I’ll go around the giant circle that way! God, no wonder it’s so easy to beat you! All your tracks are as boring as nighttime public television! It’s Baby’s First--WHAT THE HECK?!?!”

Jack had let out of the gas and stuck it to the bottom as soon as he saw the blue car coming in his mirror. Mr. O.N.E. was shut in and had to get on the brakes quick; as soon as the 24 cleared him he swiped to the outside and punched the dashboard.

Jeff exhaled in relief, clear track finally in front of him, and radioed in. “Thanks for that!” 

“Go finish this!” Jack cheered. “Three more laps and I won’t have to hear High Voltage break anyone’s eardrums again!”

Jeff let out a chuckle, savoring the purr of the engine and the blur of the hot asphalt like a home-cooked meal as he played with the throttle through the corners - he’d never been so thankful for it, so joyful. Finally, after all this, he was where he needed to be and that was all he was thinking about. Finally, everything was behind him. 

“Not bad for a bunch of peabrains going around in circles, are we?” said Candy, watching him closely. 

A few seconds later everything was closer behind him. _They think I’m stupid, huh?!?_ Mr. O.N.E.’s knuckle joints looked about to pop. _They all think I’m dumb?!? They’re just protecting, or whatever the word is, ‘cause they’re the dumb ones. I will show them. I will SHOW THEM._

 _You gotta be kidding me._ Jeff grimaced as his mirror got bluer and bluer. _Even that didn’t keep him back?_ “Candy, if there’s anything else at all you know about the guy, uh, don’t be shy!”

“Today’s the only time I got to see his driving style on a track like this.” She watched her mirror as the 47 swung down next to Bill; she chopped into his line and let off to help the 94 retake the spot. “Not that I can see a lot. All I can say is, don’t let him spin you out...he and his ego are itching to. I can tell that much.”

Never mind that the whole racing world was two and a half laps from possibly coming undone bit by bit; Jeff was going to glue his ears shut if he had to hear another arrogant word from Mr. O.N.E. It all blared inside his head. _I have moved past pouring rain, gridlock, construction sites, and even a couple freight trains to win races. And you walking billboards are--_

It stopped - Jeff had another thought.

“Don’t worry, Candy. I won’t.”

“You know what’s waiting for you once you get out of the car. You know we got the tape out and ruined you.” Mr. O.N.E. was only feet from Jeff’s bumper as they took the white flag. He cut low before Jeff cut him off and they didn’t leave the bottom. “It doesn’t matter if you save everyone else’s ride - this’ll be the last lap Jeff Gordon ever takes!” Into 1, he swung high.

And Jeff stayed low, eyes set on the next mark, saying nothing back. As his foot rolled a little more out of the throttle than usual, the 1 and the 24 drew even.

Candy’s jaw dropped. _What’s he doing?_

Out of 2, half a lap from the point the ESMs’ trigger was waiting on, they were practically locked together. They wafted just a bit toward the middle and Jeff slowly, gently moved right, pinning the Lumina to the extreme outside.

“Stop with the--” Mr. O.N.E. cut himself off and, at a sudden, delicious realization, laughed. “Oh, you sneak! You’re trying to force me into the marbles!”

Candy’s lungs sank into her stomach; Bill’s heart ran cold. And when Mr. O.N.E. doorchecked Jeff, clearing the Monte Carlo as it fell into second, they could both swear they were about to throw up.


	9. The Bad Guy Wins

Mr. O.N.E., now in the lead all by himself with two turns to go, cackled. “Is that the best you have?” 

And he sped on, top spot firm in hand, fast as ever. “You spend your whole life making the same old turns, and you think anyone else is afraid of them?”

Candy stammered. “Uh, Jeff, are you gonna--”

“You think I can’t handle playing Koosh ball with you babies?” Mr. O.N.E. roared. “Watch me!”

Knuckles still white, he went as high as he could into 3.

“Enjoy your doorless pieces of junk while you can…”

Flying through next to the wall at 160, he ran his tires right over the heaps of hot black marbles, focused straight ahead as the flagger reached for the checkers.

“...because the only true racer here is me!”

His left rear wheel started to slip.

“What the--?” The Lumina loosened on its own, the marbles sticking to its tires. “No, I can just--” He twisted the wheel right and the car skewed further left, tires skating. 

“Don’t you dare!”

He slammed the throttle. The car slid down the banking sideways, smoke spewing - he cranked the steering column as right as it could go.

Then the car did exactly what it had been asked to do.

Up the track the Lumina spun in a snap, whiplashing around; by the time its left front smacked the wall Jeff was past it. The rest of it was still moving and the sheer force lurched the left rear into the barrier and the right-side wheels into the air, metal crushing inward, pieces cracking and flying as it crashed back down. The demolished hunk slinked left, finally settling in the grass.

Jeff Gordon took the checkered flag unchallenged.

He’d done it. The True Racers had done it. He eased off the gas for the cool-down lap, taking in air, giving his worn tires and scraped engine parts a moment to rest.

“That was incredible!” Bill exclaimed, giving Jeff a celebratory donut. Smiling, Jeff slid right and gave one back. 

“Did you just…” Bill was awestruck as he rolled by. “Wait ‘til I tell the Dodge folks about this! Nashville, here I come…”

“Next time, don’t wait so long to pull out your ace!” laughed Kyle, tapping his bumper. “Those last laps dang near turned my ponytail white - seriously, I have this thing insured.”

“Yahoo!” Jeremy sped by them both at 120. “We’re gonna pound down a hundred Mountain Dews tonight; I’m buying!...some of them!”

“I’ve never been prouder to carry the 24,” said Jack from his pickup. “Seriously, though, about that Busch ride…”

Ward went by on the left. “One of these days you gotta tell me how you did that.”

“I’ll tell you all in victory lane,” said Jeff, and he took a look in the mirror.

Someone was missing.

“Guess who?” Candy radioed, and after Jeff found her off to the right she revved it as loud as possible, sent her Chevy in for another donut and laughed. “This the greatest day of--” And she stopped herself, thinking of something else. “Well, except for the fact the whole crowd’s gonna be coming after you.”

Jeff pondered that for a moment. But looking ahead to his happy teammates, to the infield, to the crews on pit road, and then to the shaking stands, he didn’t have to try to bring his smile back. So what if not everyone knew what he’d just done for them? He knew, and there’d be more races for them to cheer on, and that was enough.

After he got to the flagstand and whipped the Chevy around into a burnout thick with smoke, he spotted his crew nearby and parked it slow to meet them.

The steering wheel came off, then his helmet. And before Jeff could get the radio equipment and the plugs from out of his ears, Craven came up to the window, headset wrapped around his neck, mic up to his mouth. Voice shaking, he eyed the stands and spoke like he had seen something supernatural. “Dude, _listen_ to this.”

“We won, man!” said Jeff. “Let’s enjoy it; you all did awesome--”

“No, I’m serious. You need to get out here.”

Heeding him, Jeff undid his belts and poked out the window - the mass of people was definitely moving, at least. He hoisted himself out, bringing his shoulders through, then his legs, and he settled his feet onto the asphalt, even and prepared. When he took out his left plug, the sound was a visceral, startling force. The metal of the grandstand seemed almost to rumble with it, as though using every ounce of strength to contain this massive thing that could crack open into blazing atomic fury any second. They were jumping, flailing, and more of them were stacked against the fence, shoving past each other with dead-set eyes, than he’d ever seen. Rising over everything, their yells and their blares and their shrieks blended together. And not believing this was true, needing to be sure that what he was hearing wasn’t some surreal, night-after-a-too-long-photoshoot, Pepsi-and-Fritos-induced fever dream, Jeff removed his right plug, faced the fans, and was stunned speechless at what he had brought about.

They were cheering. Every single one.

Jeff didn’t have time to ask himself how in the world this was happening before every driver, every team ran onto the frontstretch to join in. He couldn’t help but hug his entire crew.

The sounds of the celebration went right through the driver’s-side window of the 1 car, considering that its glass was gone. Groaning, Mr. O.N.E. moved to unlock his door - after the impact, it was crammed shut. And so was the passenger’s, and so were the rear doors somehow.

Get Gone Goldenrod had dragged his wrecked car to the crash scene. SmashChamps and High Voltage and the rest of the ESMs, too, had parked there. “I know what you might say,” said Goldenrod, “but there is one way you--”

“Shut up.” Crossing his arms, he stayed put until he saw red lights flashing on top of a large white vehicle. Well, at least the ambulance was quick - he didn’t need it badly; if anything his left arm was gonna be a little sore for an hour or two. But as soon as the nurse got to him he was going to _demand_ as loud as possible that they--

Handcuffs?

“No! Absolu--Get your silky smooth hands off me! What are you, 17?” Someone had Old Number 7 in cuffs too. “I bet you don’t even remember where the dessert spoon and the appetizer spoon go; you can’t do this to me! I have wrinkles! _Wrinkles!_ ”

Track security and safety patrols had swarmed like honeybees to the scene, nabbing them all. Mr. O.N.E. could only sit and listen helplessly to the woman outside his window. “Sir, you and your five accomplices are wanted on three counts of conspiracy to commit robbery, thirty-seven counts of theft and six counts of laughing at what happened to Dale Earnhardt. And more, probably, after we break open your GPSes - I think there’s about 180 reckless driving cases that might get closed today.”

“You can’t hold me!” SmashChamps had been trying in vain to crack open the cuffs for the last minute.

“We can probably hold you, sir.” said a man behind him, monotone, eyes drooping. “We’re holding you right now, sir.”

“But I’m more--you can’t--I’m the...ugh...um...STEAK LAGERS!”

The man’s eyebrow cocked. “Steak lagers?”

“Yeah, you know, steak lagers,” SmashChamps muttered, uncertain and defensive. “What, you -- you don’t like steak lagers? You’re a grown man and you haven’t had steak lagers yet, huh? You sissy?”

“Please get in the car, sir.”

Back at the start/finish line, Jeff stared at the crash site, still practically pinching himself at the sight of what was happening. How did they finally--

“Did you know High Voltage got onto the team on a bribe?” Dale Jr. was close behind. “She had to race SmashChamps to a Saturn dealership or something, and he threw it for 2000 bucks.”

Jeff’s eyes widened. “What?”

“I knew she was in the infield, so I tapped out and took a TV crew along. We found her in an old press building...I said either I was gonna tell the world what she did, or she was gonna tell the world the plan. The blackmail, the street racing, stealing from the tracks, all of it.” He glanced at the glowing light bars. “I guess you can’t buy loyalty at RadioShack.”

Honored, Jeff shook his hand. “And I guess I got it for free. Thank you.”

“You deserve it. I--” He stopped himself - something had overwhelmed him. “I didn’t think there was anyone alive that could have gotten me out of that hole.”

Both a little choked up by now, they hugged.

A few feet away, Kyle exchanged numbers with a safety officer in a deep blue polo. “Let me know how the discovery goes, Sammie.” He took a critical look at the remains of the 1 car, its Hot Wheels decals half ripped away. “Because Mattel has some dang good lawyers.”

“I told you, Jeff.” Terry had been pushed through the mob in a wheelchair, ice pack strapped to his forehead. “You really were great at it.”

Jeff patted his shoulder. “Thanks, man. Feel better.” 

“I’ll be okay. Just gotta get some…” He trailed off. “...frosted...Frosted Mini-Wheats--I mean rest! Frosted mini-rest! Wait--” He blinked hard. “Just rest. Unfrosted, plain--”

“Hey, it only took you a couple seconds to stop the sponsor plugs this time. Go rest up; you’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

Shooting him a smile, Terry was turned back around toward the care center.

Sneaking around the rear panel of the Monte Carlo, Candy showed up next to Jeff. “Bet you’re not wondering what you did anymore!”

Jeff faced her and ran a hand over the door panel. “Bet you’re not either.”

They looked all across the grandstands - every celebrating grandparent, parent and child, every short and long head of hair, every grinning dark and light and in-between face, every banner and hat and cheeseburger. “Holy mackerel,” said Candy, eyes wide. “We actually did it.”

Jeff looked away, smirking. “You know what I still don’t get?” Candy gave him an uncertain look and he went on. “I never made a rule about driver subs. So when they put today in the record books, who are they gonna say won? Me...or you?”

“What do you--” She glanced back at the 24, and a smile cracked open as she put it together - it took her a good long moment to snap out of the shock and drag Jeff by his wrist, overflowing with joy. “Why don’t we tell them ourselves?” In no time at all her foot was on the driver’s-side window shelf. 

“Whoa, hey, you gotta take your time with this--ahh!” Before Jeff could finish they were both on the roof, fists clasped together and raised, faces beaming out reassuringly to the fans and the crews and the press and the world.

They stayed on the roof. And everyone stayed in Atlanta long into the warm golden July evening.

That frontstretch didn’t look much different in the middle of chilly November. There was more of a crowd for a race that had been properly scheduled, never mind the second-to-last before the Cup season wrapped. They snapped pictures, signed the finish line, ran their hands through the grainy grayed pavement.

Dale Jr. shook every one of his crew members’ hands before he stepped out of the hauler for the NAPA 500, and he’d remembered every last word they’d exchanged about tire pressures, pacing, togetherness and all the usual crucial things. In his suit and ready to go, he didn’t look up at the sky for long.

“You can’t not feel good about being on pole,” he said into a mic, even-toned. “I’m real proud of…” In the silver doors of another hauler, he saw his reflection standing tall. “I’m real proud of a lot of people.”

“I’d love to know...” the reporter laughed, “your family’s certainly been an eccentric one over the years, so how’d you celebrate that?”

Before Junior answered, a group of hot-pass holders appeared off to his right. Each of them not younger than fifty, they all had some kind of Earnhardt merch on - red and black and grey and white, hats and tees and bracelets, 3s and 8s. The tallest among them wore a leather ten-gallon hat and an old stained tank top that, having been whipped with Senior’s dust at all the old stalwarts from Riverside to Richmond Fairgrounds, featured no flashy graphics at all. Passing the scene of the interview, they stopped to hear his answer, watching him close.

Turning back to the mic in an instant, Junior shrugged. “I played some Close Combat 2 on the PC.”

And the fans smiled, autograph books tight in hand.

“I like number four.” Candy plucked a laminated sheet from the pile, admiring the orange and red Craftsman Truck drawn on it at four different angles. Number 25. “It looks fast.”

“GT marketing said the same thing,” said the artist. “By the way, congrats on Louisville. Must have taken a lot to hold off Anderson.”

Candy smirked. “Yeah, it’s like I’m taking lessons from Jeff Gordon or something.”

“I know - that’d be out of this world, wouldn’t it? I mean, I’d probably ask him about…”

Candy shuffled her head away delicately.

“...Oh. Oh, wait. You were trying to say that you’re actually--” Their cheeks turned red. “I gotta catch a cab. Uh, good luck.” They shuffled out the door of the skybox.

When Jeff stepped out onto the stage for driver introductions, all he cared to hear was applause. All he saw were the claps and the waves, the yellow 24s dotting the sea of people and the odd _TRUE RACERS FOREVER_ sign or two. He stood and soaked it in, not moving his ear, not choreographing, not scared. He existed as he liked, as he was meant to. 

But Matt Kenseth was up next, and far be it for Jeff to hog the spotlight. He jogged out of the way and onto the asphalt as the cheers kept ringing, and it took no time at all for him and Candy to spot each other. 

When they met up she looked right through him. “Some people forget quick, huh?”

Confused, Jeff didn’t say anything until she pointed him around. The Teletubby guy was back, jeering and booing in between swigs of water, and so were several others.

In only a second Jeff faced Candy again, gesturing to a Red Cross banner near pit road. “To be fair, it’s been a while. A lot’s different.” Candy saw it too, staying silent. 

And another thought came to Jeff - he let her know while never hesitating, never breaking eye contact. His smirk was real. “Besides, they’re making noise, aren’t they?” 

Candy chuckled. “So all you have to do is finish, what, 35th? And you’ll have the title?”

Jeff glanced to turn one. “If it happens, I might enjoy this one the most.”

“The fourth one?” Candy turned to him, intrigued, puzzled. “More than the first?”

“Believe me, you could roll onto new track after new track and take new chance after new chance since the day you turn five, and there’ll always be something you’ve never seen - something that gives you the best kind of goosebumps. You’re gonna have a flippin’ _blast_ here. Jimmie, too. Have you met him yet?”

“Yeah, we got some banh mi last week.”

“Racing never stops being awesome, and we’re all here together. But whatever it means to you and you alone, that never leaves you.” And he gestured across the frontstretch, from the fans perusing to the drivers joking with each other to the press speculating to the cracks and grooves in the asphalt. “It never left me. It just took a bunch of extra teammates and a new fuel vendor for me to remember that, is all.”

“Speaking of racing, I gotta get you back for that red shell sometime.”

“Come to the shop early. We can do that chocolate track again.”

If your heart was pounding straight out of its cavity when he and 42 others cranked their engines up to roar into the heavens that day, when they rolled out for the pace laps scrubbing their new tires to the cheers of thousands and thousands, maybe you were alone.

Maybe your husband wanted you to get back to cleaning. Maybe the kids at school had told you that watching people turn left all day was for losers. Maybe your parents wished you had grown up playing baseball, or practicing piano, or doing something else their parents had once made them do. 

You still weren’t wrong. And as he watched the lights on the pace car go dark, moved more of his right foot onto the throttle in heavy electrified anticipation and paced closer and closer to start/finish, neither was Jeff Gordon.

The green flag was up, and the first turn was just ahead.


End file.
